


cœur de pirate

by pluviales



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluviales/pseuds/pluviales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>    <strong>les amis as a band of pirates and enjolras/grantaire as the prince and captain who brew an unlikely love upon the sea</strong><br/></p>
</div><br/><div class="center">
  <p>Captain of a fearless, merry band of pirates who have cast themselves out to sea in defiance of their land's tyrannical king, the brazen Grantaire finds his soul conflicted when the fugitive prince and his footman ask to join his crew in treason. Thus begins an inner voyage which sails by fear, love, and tragedy upon the rolling ocean.</p>
</div><br/><em></em><br/><span class="small">
  <div class="center">
    <p>it's you, my love / you're my land ahoy</p>
  </div>
</span>
            </blockquote>





	1. i - la tempête approche

**Author's Note:**

> this story, i think, was really interesting to write because i used it to explore an au concept wherein grantaire is the leader who holds the ideals (although they're fading slightly) and enjolras is the outsider - you'll see as the fic progresses that the roles swap and return more to canon, but the transformation of enjolras becoming a revolutionary was so fun to write. so at first, seeing grantaire giving the speeches might be perceived slightly ooc, but bear with me.
> 
>  
> 
> _also: in the tags, i've set this as mature for graphic depictions of violence as well as character death; the first parts do not contain either of these types of content however i can confirm that these warnings _will_ be valid by the end of the work (sobs)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[reference of parental abuse in this chapter]**

Blistering the soles of filthy feet upon wooden decks and reddening bare backs and chests, the sun was at full force; its scorching arms spread out across the clear sky and gripped men in its fiery embrace, leaving noses red and lips peeling. The height of the summer was the hottest the land had seen for what must certainly have been decades, the heat intensified to its maximum out on the rolling sea. Here, the only shadows a man had to protect himself were the bristly ones on his jaw. Those on board ship who were unlucky enough to have drawn the shortest sword were assigned deck duties whilst the others clung to whatever chill they could summon below decks: his lack of luck a heavily quipped at burden, Bossuet was the ship hand who usually found himself sweltering up in the crow’s nest.

He was not always alone, however, for the ship’s captain kept the queer habit of staying on deck at all hours, or at least for as long as was humanly possible. His men often discussed this whilst sweating in their hammocks, picturing the lonely soul lying on the planks of the ship’s deck. As captain, Grantaire had his own chambers: a door barred them from the remainder of the cabin, and inside sat a great four-poster bed with burgundy curtains and cushions; it was fit for a king – failing that, a prince at the very least. Yet it had gone ignored since its plunder. No slumber had yet christened it – and neither had a woman, the band of sailors would jest in private, though this topic was kept tight-lipped around the captain.

It was not that Grantaire was a harsh man, nor an unfair one, but he was wild, and hard to predict. This was most likely due to his one faithful companion: a large barrel of absinthe. The concoction was stored in barrel upon barrel below decks, enough of it there to pour into tankards on end. When each man had turned to piracy, fleeing land for a variety of reasons and from a variety of milieus, all had initially believed the crates to be full of gunpowder and had scared; upon discovering that the stash was, in fact, liquor, the giddy relief on their faces was beyond measure. Their captain’s drinking habit was, thus, a jovial matter within his party. Many often teased about it, for Grantaire had goodwill and a cheery disposition, most often. Only one on board felt any different, and this was Jehan, the poet. Though they could drink and swear with the others until the sun rose, this one always seemed a surprising choice as a pirate; yet they were another soul fond of the deck, for they liked to watch the waves and write about them on the wooden planks. This was a pastime permitted by their captain upon the realisation that poor Jehan had run out of writing parchment on which to scrawl. Grantaire liked to read the young poet's writings, sometimes, before he went to sleep. He liked the eye that they had of the world. It was thanks to Jehan, also, that in addition to absinthe there was a constantly replenished hoard of flowers aboard the ship – whenever they moored up to head to alehouses and spend some good time stretching their legs, Jehan would scout out a pretty forest somehow. 

Each and every member of Grantaire’s merry faction had their own quirks, and each was poked at respectably: there was Joly, the _hypocondriaque_ , who returned to the ship from each night on land convinced he had picked up some contagious malady or other; Courfeyrac, the first mate, who would instead have returned with the memory of picking up a pleasant partner; Bahorel seemed to like fresh bruises as his souvenir, following a tavern brawl the previous evening. Each man had been at loggerheads with the others at some point or other during their stay, but this was not to be minded; it was pirate nature. Ultimately, however, this band of men was the closest that could be to brothers by blood. They were a fiercely close bunch, and headed by Grantaire, arguably the fiercest of all: though not physically the fittest, his endless tirades could put any man to an early grave.

These ravings were being delivered with increasing fervour and frequency as our story begins: it had been approximately two months since he and his men’s dirty feet had last touched land, already lending to him an element of wayward ferociousness, but the crucial difference in him this time was triggered by the news which came to them by means of another passing ship of like-minded men. Such men were those who, like Grantaire’s, had abandoned the king, defying his iron-vice reign over the land they had once proclaimed as great and good – in the twenty years of his sovereignty, the country had fallen apart. Riots flared up after he succeeded the former king, with many claiming he had done so by foul play: ‘murder’ was the word hotly favoured by most lips at the time.  Then, the sudden disappearance of these protesters stirred peril even further. One of these rebels had been Grantaire’s very own father; the captain was barely five years old at the time of his father’s presumed death. Raised solely by his sickly mother – for health was frail for most in the land, the lack of care and funds leading to a horrid mixture of illnesses – Grantaire vowed to follow in the footsteps of the man who had died in a fruitless attempt to build a better future for his only child. That was why, at eighteen, Grantaire left his mother’s graveside and clubbed his funds together with Courfeyrac to buy a boat. Since then they had been sailing, picking up likeminded mutineers during their seven-year span upon the sea.

Other pockets of pirates like themselves existed, they too disagreeing with the dictatorship of their foul, murderous thief of a king. Those aboard this other boat had steered towards Grantaire’s company on the _Abaissé_ with great urgency, leading the entire company to pile above deck despite the roasting heat. Words were exchanged between captains, and Grantaire returned to his friends with fire in his sea-green eyes.

“Men!” he cried, obtaining a rousing roar of ‘Captain!’ as answer. Standing behind the ship’s wheel, in the centre of the raised platform at the quarter-deck of the vessel, all attention was focused on him alone. “I have received news from the mainland of a festival. Our _illustrious_ ruler is to be drawing in this week to his twentieth year of oppression over our land –” his dripping sarcasm and spiked malice beckoned yells of agreement, not to mention the foulest of insults imaginable directed towards the king in question, “—and so there shall be a celebratory weekend; how tremendous!” More thunderous hollering sprang up at this, and, taking a swig from his bottle, Grantaire gave the men a minute to bellow their curses before waving his hands to settle them down, adopting a sardonic register: “It is with deep apologies, my company, that I let you know we aboard the _Abaissé_   did not receive invite. Ay, ay, ‘tis a grand shame – but do you know, friends, I don’t think that we should allow that drawback to hamper us…” As the pirates caught on to their captain’s thinking, their faces lit up with even further glee; from somewhere within the pack came the shout of Courfeyrac, “I say we make our faces present, and make sure our king knows it!” This yell was met with a second roar of ‘Hear, hear!’

Up on the helm, Grantaire raised his wine bottle high above his head. “Do you know, men, I think we should be doing just that!” And with mighty force, he flung the bottle to the floor, its smash triggering much chaos on the deck below. Spinning the wheel feverishly, Grantaire grinned as his men set about frantically, hoisting anchor and preparing for land ahoy.

 

 

Carried along by a favourable westerly wind, the voyage to the mainland was a brief one, lasting just under a day. During this journey, all discussion was on the festivities they intended to impede upon, and a full dozen caskets of absinthe were drained. This flammable combination of enthusiasm and liquor proved entertaining indeed; within a few hours the men were wrestling above and below decks, their fists flying and feet lashing while their mouths laughed and chests shook with merriment. It was a peculiar habit, this fun fighting, so strangely enjoyed by both parties even whilst their cheeks were cut and chests bruised. And where one might expect these minor challenges to conclude in a great argument, and much hostility between the competitors, they would be sorely mistaken; these small battles in fact resulted in even greater camaraderie between the sailors.

Even Joly managed to join in with the gaiety, his mind at ease for once. There was much drink shared and many shanties hollered as the ship pressed on, their broken land nearing rapidly as the company at last slept beneath the moon; all slumbered, that is, save for Grantaire. He alone remained standing – albeit staggering, from time to time – as he reflected moodily at the forecastle deck of the ship’s helm end, eyes fixed upon some unknown spot in the dark horizon. Consuming an entire barrel of alcohol by himself during this time of reflection, Grantaire was unsure when he at last surrendered to a well-earned sleep, yet he found himself awaking the next day nonetheless. Courfeyrac was smacking him awake as he snoozed behind the ship’s wheel, with Bossuet far above in the crow’s nest shrieking “Land ahoy, captain, land ahoy!”

Grantaire dashed to his feet and grabbed the wooden stubs of the wheel, setting his eyes on the quickly approaching port. “Courfeyrac,” he beckoned, “alert our men below decks. Our time has arrived!” he added, beaming widely as he spun the wheel round and round, easing the ship gently into the docks. Unsurprisingly, they were deserted: judging by the blaring fanfare drifting towards his ears from the city roads behind the port, celebrations were in full swing. Nobody was trading today, on this conceited holiday, so naturally the docks were silent. It was a sombre sight indeed, that the place, usually so bustling and animated, lay so eerily deserted; the vision gave Grantaire thoughts of death, such grim notions bitter in his mouth. For a man so young, the captain thought of such morbidities far too often.

A swift speech of encouragement was delivered to his crew by himself and Courfeyrac as the ship was moored; there was a brief debate over whether swords should be left on ship or hooked into waistbands, with the latter option being decided as the wisest choice. After all, the reason our band of revolutionaries had berthed their vessel was to stir up their protest; as these men had learned years previously, using arms was the easiest way to cause a quick fright. Disembarking from the ship eventually, Grantaire asked a wrinkled old seaman who was packing up empty crates at the opposite end of the port which tavern in this capital city he most recommended to such a group of riotous youths. The grey man chuckled, baring his rotten gums, and happily pointed them in the direction of the pub with the most infamous repute for piracy. Slapping him on the back in thanks, one swift glance towards the _Abaissé_ prepared Grantaire enough for the march into the city.

The streets were teeming with citizens, each wearing their own strapped-on smile and carrying with them a forced merriness. No man had ever seen the capital so busy, not even on days of market or during the most heated periods of trade; it was truly a wonder. Banners and streamers hung from open windows, the bunting which lined the narrow streets flapping with the breeze. Long tables had been arranged in the middle of some roads, with all sorts of ales and edible delights arranged upon them. Grantaire’s party did not linger too long here, though it was difficult to pull some of his crew away from the sweet tartlets. Despite the colour and the cheer, however, there was a tangible tension in the air, punctuated by the dribs of uniformed royal guard keeping station on street corners. Passing them as nonchalant and unremarkable as possible, Grantaire kept his rapier carefully out of sight.

At last, they reached the exterior of the inn. It was a drab place, its roof dilapidated and sagging and its walls grubby as the faces of the men and women who lounged around outside, tankards of ale in their bony hands. Over the threshold, inside the pub, the state of dreariness was not much better: yellowing notices were curling upon the peeling papered walls, the bar was missing great chunks of its dark wood, and tables and stools had seemingly at some point been gnawed at in places. Still, the crew of the _Abaissé_ could brighten any room with their sheer manpower. The moment they entered the tavern, an already busy place, two separate shanties were started and the beer was readily streaming. Within a few minutes lips were decorated with white-foam moustaches and feet were clattering in giddy little jigs about the wooden floor as the pirates jested their way into each other’s acquaintance.

Grantaire had selected a semi-circular booth at which to sit, propping his legs up atop the table beside his glass of absinthe. He was watching and clapping to the revelry with much amusement, elbowing Courfeyrac and Joly to point out particularly comical sights as they slid into the booth on his either side, their own pints in hand. Aye, the festivities in here were the truthful ones, he mused inwardly. How bittersweet was it that merely a wall divided the two parties; one wherein songs were penned and performed to honour the tyrant, the other wherein songs were bellowed condemning him, and only a tower of brick segregated these two kinds of music. Grantaire knew which he preferred, O, he knew that well: death to the king, death to his family! That was the goal. No heir could continue his regime of slavery, no wife could bear him beasts of children. The pirates would see to that; that was what they were to do. As soon as their heads cleared free of the liquor, that was what they would accomplish.

Several hours passed inside the tavern, yet the dispositions inside did not sour. Indeed, much a merriment was being enjoyed by all present, so much so that the only time the door swung open was to permit another reveller inside, for nobody already in the tavern had wish to leave. Generally, with the pirate community being so limited – thick as thieves, it would be wise to suggest – each new arrival was met with much uproar and shaking of hands. So many greetings were hollered out, it seemed as though each and every seaman in the world had come to the town tonight.

Only one arrival was unacknowledged.

Two men, both cloaked, their heads dipped, pushed open the door quietly. Their robes’ hoods were up, and lightly smattered damp with rain; their faces were shadowed. Nobody bade them notice as they stepped inside fully, each man too wrapped up in his own tale or joke or arm-wrestle. Once in, they crossed the room to stand in the far corner, and drew up two stools. There, one of the men pushed back his hood – but only slightly, and with widened, fearful eyes, as though he had committed a sinister crime. Such sketchy characters entered this tavern so frequently that their presence was not, on the surface, abnormal: if any man present had ventured to lift these strangers’ hoods, however, they would have found the matter to be completely the opposite.

This peculiar pair sat in their corner for no longer than ten minutes before they rose. Grantaire – now alone, and feeling his eyelids grow heavy – did not spot them approaching before they had slipped into the booth, flanking him. Jolting up in his seat, the tipsy captain was taken aback by their queer disguises.

“Captain,” the man whose face was only covered to a degree said quietly, “pray do not be alarmed. I am Combeferre. I request a brief word outside, if you would be so partial.”

“Why can’t it be said here?” Grantaire fired back. The man was rather a sceptic, and did not take to trusting new people so easily. “Here there is wine and company. What tavern chat requires solace instead?”

The hooded man released a sharp sigh, irritation clear in his breath. “This is not tavern chat,” he spat.

Grantaire’s fingers moved to rest upon the curve of the sword holstered at his hip. Faithful in his own ability, should it be required, he eventually nodded. Combeferre murmured his thanks and quickly left the tavern with his ill-tempered associate, leaving Grantaire to follow. The captain turned his empty wine bottle about in his hand, mentally weighing its functionality as a weapon. It would serve well as a shock if smashed over the head of these potential assailants, he supposed. So, gripping the improvised armament tightly in his hand, Grantaire sauntered into the biting night air after the men.

Once outside, he was led around a corner and beckoned into the filthy, narrow alley between this tavern and the butcher’s beside it. The claustrophobic passage reeked of a combination of rotting animal flesh and beer-induced vomit; living the lifestyle that he did, Grantaire was not overly fazed by the stench, though it did lead him to question this Combeferre, the peculiar man wringing his hands before him. Glancing around, he drew back his hood fully and began his case: “I apologise for the circumstances, Monsieur, but our situation requires certain secrecy.” Here, he paused a moment, checking he retained the pirate’s full attention – this man could not be of the sea himself, Grantaire understood, for his parlance was too crisp and his language too regally dictated. “I understand that you are a captain of a – pirate ship, yes, Monsieur? I have much gold, much wealth to offer you for a great favour in return. For we have heard of your rather outspoken views concerning the monarchy and our current King, you understand…”

At the mention of his name Grantaire spat on the floor, raising a chuckle from the hooded man. Combeferre also smiled as he continued, “It is good to see our opinions are shared. See, my associate here is in mortal danger, myself also. Just one hour previously we fled from the citadel, seeking a soul like yourself to come to our aid.”

“You are traitors to the King?” Grantaire interrupted, eyeing both with great wariness. He received a nod in response, yet was not fully convinced. “And I’m presuming you want to board my ship,” he determined, a cynical laugh catching shortly in his throat. “You’re not of our sort, I’m afraid. The _Abaissé_ doesn’t take in any queer figure from the street. Besides, I haven’t even been graced with the facial appearance of your _associate_ , yet. How am I to trust a shadow and a whisper?”

Combeferre visibly stiffened at this, his voice taut and prickled as he next spoke, his words directed at the unfathomable stranger: “Sir, pray remove your hood for this noble captain.” A hesitation passed, and Grantaire shook his head – the sheer indignation of it all! He was being played for a fool, and had better things to be doing than conversing with escaped castle workers. Inside the tavern were a bottle of beer and a jolly party waiting for him; he decided not to make them wait a moment longer. Turning to leave, he stopped short as the second man removed his hood at last: this man was no human, however, he couldn’t be; the appearance of this man was that of a wonder in itself. His countenance was stunning, his features splendid, his eyes a deep blue, blazing. His hair fell in ringlets past his shoulders, golden as a sweet honey, tied at one side – few escaped tendrils framed the face of this wonder, this oddity. The features were familiar, the thick brows in particular; they reminded Grantaire of some acquaintance or other, though he was full aware that he would not have forgotten the memory of meeting such a man.

His voice was heavy, weighted far beyond his years – this angel of a man could be no older than Grantaire – as he spoke, and the wondrous captivation was shattered into a thousand leagues around the captain: “I am Enjolras,” he muttered quietly and shamefully, “the prince of this land, the sole heir of the King.”

At this, Grantaire surged forward, his curled fist meaning to do severe damage to the divinity’s wretched features, yet he could not bring himself to carry out the blow when he saw the fear leap into this Enjolras’ eyes. Trembling violently, he lowered his fist and spat, “I despise the very blood which runs through your veins.”

“Monsieur,” the prince answered, a pleading note flaring up in his intonation, “If I could, I would drain each drop here and now. In fact, if you wish to do the deed yourself, I will let you. All I wish is to be spared from this pain.”

“Pain!” cried Grantaire incredulously, springing forward and roughly burying his fists in the prince's chest. "With meat on your plate and flesh on your bones, and gifts at your feet and your future safely secured?”

Enjolras’ eyes had dropped to the floor when Grantaire had grabbed him, his head slamming against the brick wall with a sharp crack. He was shaking as the captain kept hold of him, spittle on his lips, waiting for a response. All Enjolras did, steadily and with caution, was lift his right arm so that the pirate could see it; pushing up the sleeve, he revealed an ugly array of wax candle burns and bruises. “These are the gifts from my father,” he said quietly.

Grantaire was taken aback wholly, his eyes moving over each mark. When he glanced back up at the prince, he found his head to be turned away; whether in pain or grief or a mixture of the two, he did not know. At last, sighing deeply, Grantaire released Enjolras and spun away, running his free hand through his tattered tangle of hair and squeezing his eyes shut. The night had become a travesty, and he now faced a choice; he ought to hate this man, the angel-faced son of the devil, yet he could not do it. Something had stirred in the pit of the pirate’s stomach, a churning for once not sprung from deathly hunger. He had every right to ignore this gnawing, yet it had already rooted his feet firmly to the spot; he could not leave.

Fixing his gaze firmly and gravely upon whom he now understood to be the footman of this fugitive prince, Grantaire made his decision. “Combeferre,” he started, “I accept your request. There is place for the pair of you aboard my ship, but I don’t guarantee it to be a comfortable one. My crew might not show you the same tolerance as I, but this is a problem you must take in your stride. Don your hoods again, and meet us at the port on the morrow. There, we can rationalise the situation properly.”

Not bearing to look at Enjolras again, Grantaire did not let his eyes stray from Combeferre as he made his solemn vow, gave a sharp nod, and walked back to the tavern. Shutting the door behind him, he pressed his back to the wood and let his head fall against it – even then, he knew this new voyage was not to be one of ease.


	2. ii - frères d'armes

Light barely spilled over the horizon as Grantaire stood shivering in the dawn chill. The lack of sun painted the port with a misty milk, and a light fog hovered at his feet as he shifted his weight back and forth. Grantaire was not often to worry – that was Joly’s preoccupation – yet soft creases wrinkled his forehead as he waited. The hour may have been incredulous, aye, considering the revelry shambles of the previous night, yet if Grantaire had managed to drag himself up from the wine-burdened slumber, Courfeyrac could certainly be capable of the same: there had always been more energy in the man, often remarkably so – many of his shipmates wondered if he had ever felt the dull ache of weighted eyes during his exuberant life, or passed a single yawn from his grinning lips. While he let the minutes skip by, Grantaire was not grinning. This was a time when he needed his first mate deeply; his oddball counsel was often in fact comforting, in a peculiar way.

Drawing his sword, Grantaire sparred with nothing but the crisp air, flicking his wrist deftly for a few imaginary clashes of steel before at last lunging, driving the silver blade deep into his make-believe opponent’s ribs.

“Fighting with the wind again, Captain?”

Finally, Courfeyrac had decided to grace the captain with his presence. “Courfeyrac!” he called in answer, turning to face the pirate as he strolled up with hands in pockets, “It is most pleasant of you to at last show your unsightly mug.”

At this chastising, the first mate chuckled. “My apologies,” he shrugged, only partly shamefully, “It was quite the longer walk from her chambers than I recalled.”

Grantaire frowned and waved his hand. “Enough, enough – spare me the details of your womanising. They are better left at the headboard, you ought to learn so. To brag about such conquests may beckon you a blow to the jaw if the maid was not entirely truthful about her marital status.” Laughing lowly, Grantaire resumed. “Now listen, for I have important news to share with you. We are to welcome two new men aboard the _Abaissé_ this morrow.”

Eyebrows raised, Courfeyrac nodded. His captain waited for the anticipated interruption – for the man could never pause before casting out his own insight – but his first mate was, most unexpectedly, quiet. Thrown slightly by the lack of protest, Grantaire cleared his throat and continued. He had been up for the greater share of the night turning over plans in his mind; was he to inform the crew of their new additions’ origins? Even he had reacted with violence upon the revelation, and he was bested by far in terms of rashness among his crew – he could not be certain just how aggressively they may react. Courfeyrac, however, he trusted. If there was any anger, it would be released here in the young hours of the morning, rather than directly at the royal acquaintances. “There is a complication, however, Courfeyrac; I entreat you not to stir too wildly when I tell you, our new rebels are from the royal courts. Traitors to the king, wholly, I am certain – I would not have permitted them anywhere nearer to our cause if I had a single doubt. Yet there is more, O, and it is shocking; pray steady yourself. These men are the prince himself and his sworn sword.”

A lump rose in Grantaire’s throat from apprehension as he hesitated, gauging the reaction of his first mate. Courfeyrac’s impassiveness had indeed shifted to outrage, though it was softened by sheer bewilderment. “Ay, what? The prince? He is the son of the tyrant, spawned of the oppressor, yet you are gladly permitting he walk our deck? Captain, he deserves to be walking our plank. His manservant with him, at that. Have you lost your wit, Grantaire? Tell me you are teasing. I cannot believe you, _you_ , our fierce mutineer of mutineers has consented to this.”

Grantaire inhaled deeply; he had suspected the first mate would disagree with his captain. He was merely glad, however, that he had left himself enough time for persuasion. “Courfeyrac, understand me. He is no traitor. This Enjolras’ sole sin lies in the kin given him by birth. Would you permit killing a man, purely for his existence? Courfeyrac, I understand your grief. Your mother and father, they did not deserve—”

“Do not speak of my parents, do not dare! If I am never to fulfil my right to take vengeance for their stolen souls directly upon the devil who snatched them, I shall settle for Lucifer’s son.”

This was the first time Courfeyrac had ever spoken so belligerently to him, the first time he had acted out of turn before his captain. The grin was wiped cleanly from his face now, his cheeks reddened and his entire frame shaking. If not had Grantaire known him so well, he would have presumed him to be on the verge of weeping. When Grantaire next responded, he did so with his hands gently upon Courfeyrac’s shoulders; his eyes had that fierceness, the intensity which inspired his men so. “One day,brother, one day I vow to you that you will have chance to slaughter the devil for the ill he has done to you and to the people sleeping soundly around us. But the man who is to be meeting us before the hour is through; he is not the one at fault. He is not the fiend you seek, and doing harm to him would be a hollow triumph on your part – it would not hurt his father, nor himself. This is a man crippled with guilt that does not belong to him. He would welcome any action you were to take against him, I believe, but who would that leave as the better man? Courfeyrac, I beg of you, see sense. Permit him stay.”

It took a few moments following Grantaire’s final plea for any response, but after a sustained moment Courfeyrac nodded, wiping his eyes with the rough of his hand. He released a deep, sore sigh, resonating from the innermost cavity of his soul, it felt, and nodded a second time. “Grantaire, you rogue, you are a bastard burden to my heart. What deceitful deal did you strike with God to possess such strong sway?” A dispirited chuckle struggled from his throat, and he clapped his captain on his back in camaraderie. “I apologise for speaking out, my captain.”

“Do not apologise, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire answered, “Without your dissent I would be a tyrant in my own self, too. Now let us escape this chill temporarily, and have a drink on ship.”

“Captain!” reprimanded Courfeyrac, laughing properly this time. “It is barely dawn. Is absinthe really how you wish to wake?”

Grantaire was fully aware of his first mate’s disapproval of his drinking so, but beamed jovially nonetheless, starting towards the _Abaissé_. “My friend, there is no better way to be greeted in the morning.”

At this, Courfeyrac released a loud guffaw of crude wit. “O, no, captain; I can contest that easily.”

 

 

No longer than three-quarters of an hour had passed since the disagreement upon the docks when Grantaire was standing upon their ground again, this time at least clothed in the warmth of the growing sun. In the time between he had taken that drink, as intended, before bidding that Courfeyrac inform the others of their coming company; he was of the knowledge that if the news came from Courfeyrac, the member of the party with arguably the greatest cause for angry censure, the men would take it better. He predicted that he would have many an indignant question to answer for later, but in those feeble minutes of the morning he wished for nothing but inner quiet before he would have to deal with such aggravations. This seeking-out of hush often left him pegged as uncaring, sometimes even unfeeling for the cause. Such accusations were entirely wrong – Grantaire believed in his cause much enough, it was incontestable; he just didn’t believe with as rash a conviction as the others. Where they demanded instant justice, immediate death, Grantaire knew it wiser to bide their time. That was the only way to save them from a fool’s death, unworthy of even the title of martyrdom for it would be so deep in stupidity. Yet whenever he tried to rationalise these opinions to his crew, they claimed him a cynic, a pessimist – perhaps they were correct, yet his scepticism did not for one moment hamper his passion.

Turning over many such thoughts in his mind, Grantaire kept his eyes focused on the north entry to the port, waiting for the specks of two men to arrive as pinpricks atop the distant steps. When, at last, they did, he felt suddenly unprepared. Even from his standing point on the dock, the captain heard the sudden clamour within his ship’s cabin: within a half-minute, his crew were standing above deck in their entirety, riveted intensely upon the events which were to unfold. Grantaire smirked at their tenacious audacity, yet did not allow himself to meet their gazes or acknowledge them – he had to retain composure for the conversation ahead. Making their way towards him, the captain was glad to see the two men rid of their heavy hoods from the previous night: now, they were dressed at least a little more suitably, however their apparel was nowhere near fit for the seas. He would have to sort them out some sort of kit later; first, he reminded himself, he had to make it to the ship.

Inhaling deeply as they drew up to him, Grantaire nodded in greeting. “Monsieurs. You are right on time, a nice sign.” He spoke in pleasant wit, but their faces bore expressions of unease – Combeferre’s eyes darted between the congenial captain standing before him and his contrasting crew aboard the ship with some disquiet. “I have pre-informed my crew of your arrival, I saw it best.”

“They know our identities?” This was Enjolras, his eyes wide with concern.

“Ay. I apologise if you did not wish for it, but I refuse to have lies between my men. They were not entirely content, I don’t believe, however they will adjust. It will do them good to remember,” he added, raising his voice enough so that his eavesdropping crew would most certainly hear, “that they each have a story to tell, also, and a bitterness in their pasts. The _Abaissé_ is accepting of these imperfections, however – it is accepting to _all_ , I repeat. Now, I need a second oath. Do you swear, by the name of God in heaven above and all the deities farther beyond, that you intend upon this crew no malice or deceit, that you come as a sworn heretic, true to the cause, with goal ultimately of disbanding this crooked monarchy and triumphing over our land’s oppressor?”

Combeferre nodded gravely, and uttered: “I swear.” Meanwhile, Enjolras put his hand upon his breast, directly over his heart. His eyes glittered potent as he too dipped his head. “I swear.”

With a merry clap of his hands, Grantaire shattered the tenseness with a grin. “Good! It is settled then. Follow me aboard, new comrades of the _Abaissé_ , and receive your wine and welcome.” After these words, he turned and hoisted himself up into the air by gripping the ropes which moored the ship to the port. Wriggling along nimbly, he hopped down onto the deck with adept skill. Courfeyrac at once stepped up to his side, and informed him: “We stand with you.” Profoundly relieved, Grantaire turned to face his crew, and nodded his head in appreciation. They each winked and smiled in response, and the brotherly faith and trust of the crew again endeared his heart for the umpteenth time.

Though it took some manoeuvring, Enjolras and Combeferre managed to lift themselves aboard the ship after him, and each took a moment to absorb the new atmosphere before settling their weight upon the boards fully. An anxious silence passed between their looking at the crew and a response, pressing Grantaire to worry again momentarily, yet after a few seconds the men gave a united bellow, raising their fists to strike the air and releasing this almighty warriors’ cry.

**“ _L’Abaissé!_ ”**


	3. iii - le feu est allumé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[recount of strong violence in this chapter]**

Night winds whistled high and gusty just inches from his cold cheek on the other side of the wooden cabin walls. When he exhaled, he could watch the miniature clouds his breath made in the frigid air, see them dissipate before his tired eyes. The hammock, made of rope strung in a criss-crossing pattern, pushed into his back uncomfortably in dozens of tiny diamonds; it was truly a thousand leagues from the velveteen, emerald-quilted bed whose duck-feather duvets remained still and neatly pressed as it lay vacant in the his chambers at home. No – he scolded himself inwardly, for he could no longer allow himself to associate the palace with home; this creaking cabin was his palace now, however different it was. Even with his eyes shut, breathing in through his nose, the smell was different: there was no trace of fresh herbs, such as parsley and rosemary, scattered in bowls atop tables; no hint of fresh cooking, the divine scent of roasting lamb which he would lap up as he passed by the substantial kitchens or the beautifully garnished soups salted so subtly. Here, in the bowels of the ship, the smell of salt was briny, it lining and filling many of the barrels stored in the south end of the cabin. Musky sweat was another pungent scent, as would be expected of the men who laboured beneath the blazing sun for hours at end.

There was, however, one smell which persisted here – and rather unexpectedly, at that: this was the delicate note of flowers, of sugary rose and heady lavender, and even the smooth vanilla of orchids. Enjolras looked about the cabin to try to seek out their vases. From his low viewpoint in the hammock, however, it was tricky to see much; considering the prince was restless anyhow, he decided to find them properly. So with utmost caution, he eased himself from the swing gently and felt his feet touch lightly upon the wooden floor. The men around him were all fast asleep, thankfully, so it was easy to slip from the cabin – as he left, his eyes did not happen upon the one hammock which lay empty.

There were but three main cabins to the lower deck of the ship: the hammock-room from which he had just exited, a slightly cramped space set aside for rest; the captain’s bedroom, with a door that Enjolras had been informed was near constantly kept shut, the room lying vacant – quite a curiosity, he mused; and the largest cabin, a wide space scattered with stools and a couple tables, some chests of drawers, even most peculiarly a grandfather’s clock without hands. It was here that Enjolras found the flowery smell to be stronger – it was also here that he found there to be another crew member awake.

He was lying stomach flattened upon the floor, which could hardly have been comfortable, yet he seemed to be meandering inside a realm very distant in his mind: a stubby pencil clutched in his slender hand, the young man’s tongue poked out between his lips as he scrawled feverishly upon the floor planks themselves. He was the only other blond-haired member of the company; it was seeing his messily drawn back, pale yellow hair which prompted Enjolras to remember him. The prince had taken great care to listen intently to discussions and introductions earlier, a habit drilled into him by training in royal etiquettes. The system was to remember an acquaintance’s announced title and given names, in addition to one point of interest about their qualities. Here, he tested himself: this was Jehan Prouvaire, without title, and he was a keen poet. Sorely timid in stature, it seemed, Enjolras had not heard much from this man, who seemed younger than most of the others in both build and character. A purple bellflower had been threaded into his braid, and the prince knew he had found the person behind the floral aromas. For the moment being, though, it did not seem that this Prouvaire had noticed him – until, taking a further step into the cabin, his tread caused a board to creak underfoot. Head snapping up at once, Prouvaire spotted Enjolras and blushed pink immediately, his smile ill at ease.

“Ah, _zut_ \- I apologise for disturbing your work, Monsieur,” said Enjolras repentantly, but the boy he addressed waved away his concern, answering gently.

“Do not apologise, my friend; my words were shrinking away in any case. And, oh, please do not call me Monsieur, I am no sir. The simple 'Jehan' would do pleasantly.”

Enjolras nodded. “Jehan it is, then, if you wish it.” He drew nearer, peering at the planks; they were blanketed grey by the graphite words scrawled in messy cursive across their wood. “Would you tell me what you were writing, if I were to ask?”

At that, Jehan chuckled wistfully. “It depends. Are you asking?” they quipped, before a pause. “They are mere winged words, pinned down to board. No more than murmurings, do not worry yourself. The hour is late to delve into them. That said, you are still awake. Are you an _insomniaque_?”

“Not habitually, yet I fear I have not slept a wink for weeks,” sighed the prince.

“I understand you. I would be an insomniac, if not for that I am the one to stunt my own slumber. For unfathomable reasons, my brain breathes much clearer while the world snoozes. An oddness, indeed, but not a madness; though the world is mad. In it, blind people guide whilst guided people are blinded by them.” Though still delicate, the poet’s tone had dipped slightly, an underlying vigour in their tenor. They sounded almost fierce. Enjolras could detect a burden within the young soul, a deep injustice done to it. It was, furthermore, most curious how such a mild-mannered spirit had wound up in such a vicious sphere as piracy, yet the prince knew it would be rude of him to ask, and so held his tongue, contemplating in hush for a while to pass.

“You're wondering, aren’t you; you are reflecting upon my peculiarity,” Jehan asked plainly, alarming Enjolras.

“O! No! I deeply apologise, I was merely speculating upon how you came to board this ship. I meant no insolence, my friend, I vow.”

Jehan shook their head gracefully, smiling again. “I perceived none, it is all right. I have been asked the tale before; I have come to acknowledge my incongruity with these surroundings. I can tell that you wish to hear it, and I have no qualms in sharing. Three years ago, I believe it was, when I first boarded this ship. I was fleeing as you did, and was not lacking in funds either. I had narrowly escaped the royal guard; I was barefoot. My soles bled upon the docks when I reached them.  
                “I was the only child of two travelling musicians, a splendid violinist and flautist, who had once performed for the king. They had been pardoned from their service following my birth with quite the amassment of gold, yet they did not settle down - that would mean giving up their passion. So they continued to travel, and my birthdays passed upon the roads. O! Do not look pitiful, my friend; I cherished each moment. Hardly enough, nonetheless, but I was never to know that bliss held a limit. I was taught the flute well, grasped the beginnings of violin playing, and often joined my parents in the taverns. It was a humble affair, yet a merry one. They did not discourage me from anything my heart fixed itself upon; I was treasured as much as I treasured in return.  
                “The enchantment did not last, however, as nothing can. I said before that the world is rampant with madness, and it was due to a man most mad indeed that my parents were cut down before my eyes, two weeks before I was to turn twenty. They had been performing a jest in an inn at the roadside, including a light skit upon the king. They did not know that one of his brigades was dining at the rear of the room.”  
                Casting down their eyes, Jehan’s tale was suspended briefly as they dwelled upon something to themselves. When they resumed, their voice was yet more timid than usual. “I had been inside our wagon following the show, whilst they packed away their instruments. I heard footsteps in the mud, and peeped outside; I saw the emerald coats blur as they struck the first blow, then the second, and the third. I saw them beat and bludgeon my parents to their deaths without tarnishing an inch of those coats… it must have been a well-practised skill.  
                “I could not scream – I wished to, I burned to, but my lungs failed me. It was only once they had strolled away to resume their puddings, and I saw my mother’s flute still in her limp grasp, that I shrieked. I shrieked the entire way of eleven miles through the cornfields to the nearest docks. I had nothing with me but that terrible picture in my mind; I explained so to Grantaire when I discovered him outside the _Abaissé._ ” Here, Jehan paused again, this time to permit themselves a poignant smile. “Within two round minutes, I had warm milk and bread in my hands, and a coat on my back: he is a noble man, our captain, despite how he tries to hamper such a dignified repute. My parents would approve of his guardianship.”

Trying to swallow what he had heard, Enjolras found his throat to be dry as bone, yet his cheeks wet. He sat in stupidity for a while, stunned into silence, unable to respond. The weighty guilt he had felt crushing him from all directions as he had glimpsed the frail, pale citizens shivering in the town, was nothing compared to this devastating hole he felt ripped in the pit of his stomach. Though it was not his, not at all, he took responsibility for the horrors he had just heard from the sweet soul before him. This guilt gnawed at his abdomen, chewing on the flesh for a terrible time before spitting it out upon the scalding flames of a burning fire. Enjolras ached to toss his entire body into these flames, but it devoured him slowly, excruciatingly, more and more each passing moment for all the months he had been wise enough for sense. That was his price, self-inflicted or otherwise, for being so blind to such horrors for so long beforehand. A quarter of a century he had lived, and he had lived blind as the men Jehan had made reference to earlier. He barely deserved to pronounce himself a man; he was no more than a child, a foolish child.

“Jehan,” he began, struggling to find any words, “I am sorry. I am wholly and absolutely repentant for the wretchedness inflicted upon you. I vow, my friend, that your parents did not die in vain. I will find those emerald-coats, and I will give them justice from you.”

Once again, a ghostly smile floated across Prouvaire’s face. “It is amusing; your words match those of the captain’s almost word-for-word. I believe you, Enjolras, and I thank you. But I do not want them slain. Death for death is unreasonable; though they do deserve retribution. One day, I am certain God will give it to them. But their justice is not to be inflicted by the hand of man, do not worry yourself. You do not owe me such a debt, you owe me nothing. No, no, do not try to interject; I have faith. Go rest, Enjolras. I am at peace with my words.”

His vision blurring, with pressed lips Enjolras nodded. “I bid you a good-night, Jehan.” The one of flowers nodded, and bent their head again to resume their writings. Turning away, Enjolras suddenly felt overwhelmed – the remorse, the shock, it whirled around in his mind and dizzied him; he needed air as the gasping fish needs water. Stumbling in his haste, the prince rushed up the narrow steps to the upper deck, leaving the claustrophobic cabin below him as he emerged into the blustery night.

At once, his body chilled; he welcomed the cold, favouring this extreme over the unbearable, asphyxiating roasting he had felt at the foot of the stairs. Here, it seemed he had emerged into a divine placidity. The wind was blowing, but softly. It lifted his curls gently, the caring stroke of a mother. He had never received such a stroke – whenever a hand had met his skin, a red mark was all that sprang up afterwards, not reassurance. Above his head, the inky night sky stretched onwards like a great unfurled map, its scattered stars marking distant realms dotted about the heavens. Wisps of purple cloud hung gaseous around them, obscuring some, yet their light still twinkled through the haze. His head thrust back fully to marvel at them, Enjolras closed his eyes for a moment; in that time, all that there was to the world was himself, the waves, and the wind. It was beautiful.

Feeling his body start to sway precariously with the rocking of the ship, the prince’s eyes snapped open and he steadied himself with the wooden beam beside him. It was only then, jerking himself from the reverie, that he noticed the solitary figure standing at the bow, looking out to sea. The man’s back was partially to him in such a fashion that he could not see Enjolras unless from the strained peripherals of his eyes, but Enjolras could see the profile of his face clearly: if the bottle of absinthe in his hand by his side did not reveal his identity immediately, the captain’s hat propped atop a cannon at his side did; it was Grantaire. His gaze was distant, extending further than the horizon, and his expression was one of doubt, of deep musings. Enjolras did not wish to disturb him from his thoughts, for he seemed so pensive.

He did not have need to, anyway; after a prolonged moment of Enjolras watching him, it was as if Grantaire had sensed his presence – he turned on the spot to regard the prince, who could not in turn determine the nature of his expression. There was softness there, if his eyes did not deceive him: admiration, even, could be found upon his face. It lay beneath a thick toughness, however, a roughened cynicism which the captain wore as a second skin.  
 For a strange moment, the pair merely looked upon the other, neither having need to speak. Usually, a discomforted flush would have crept across Enjolras’ cheeks by his staring at somebody for so long, yet this gaze defied that reaction.

It sustained a while longer before Grantaire looked back to sea, commenting at last. “I didn’t sleep my first night, either.” The prince, usually with so much to say, so much influence to exert, could once again not find his words; the blush had come delayed, it heated his cheeks now as he tore his head away as if in shame. But was he in shame? He did not think so – he could not feel it. It was most queer, but he did not linger on the thought; the captain spoke again. “Whether it was the waves or the wine, Courfeyrac was out at once. I couldn’t muster it, though, not a wink. I came up here, and I fell asleep above deck.” He chuckled to himself lowly. “I have not slept anywhere else since.”

“Even under rainfall?” Enjolras’ remark was trivial, yet he was curious – he had not spent a full night anywhere yet but than in his grand bed, a palace of its own. The notion of slumbering beneath stars seemed to him mightily fanciful, a pretty romanticism despite its rational drawbacks.

To his surprise, a hearty laugh came from Grantaire at his question; the captain stepped down from the forecastle and walked towards Enjolras as he answered, grinning. “Ay, even under rainfall. Snowfall, too. Quite right, I reckon, that I have slept alongside such demons as that weather. A captain with fear is hardly much of a captain at all. And there is much to fear in the weather.”

“What of your blankets?”

“What blankets do I need? My liquor keeps me warm.”

“Ah… I sparsely drink.”

“I sparsely stop.”

The captain was close now, reaching a halt before Enjolras. Unreasonably, the prince felt the urge to turn away; he did just that, shifting his gaze out to the far reaches of the rolling ocean around them as if absent-mindedly. “How long have you been aboard ship, captain?” he asked imperturbably, though with genuine interest. Grantaire audibly pondered the enquiry, murmuring to himself, and from the side of his vision the prince watched him counting up the years on his fingers.

“Seven years, more or less,” came the answer at last. Seven years! Enjolras could not believe it. The captain and he appeared roughly the same age, meaning the man could have been no much older than eighteen when he turned to piracy. The prince craved to ask why so young, to find out what had prompted him to abandon his life before it had fully begun. To embark upon piracy, to live off-shore, was a crime heavily punished by his father – no; by the king. At least thirty years in the galleys or death itself was promised to captured pirates. Ten of these years were for squandering of fiscal potential – where the man could be working, serving for, or helping his country, he was merely consuming without creating, a sponge, in the law’s eyes. The other twenty years were for treason; the pirate was a heretic, a traitor to the throne. This was the crime which the excuse for their murder was given, the pretext for their slaughter. Enjolras paused to consider such justification: at least they were given one, at least they were allocated a defence for their death; the innocent civilians he had seen pass through the courts, men and women and children led in by the hand, they were not always given this embellishment. Their demises were kept clandestine, contained abominably inside the throne room walls.  
Sometimes, just beyond the castle parapets, Enjolras had watched those children playing.

Shivering at the recollection, he tried to drag himself from the brooding. And though he had not realised, Grantaire had been watching him during his inward tangent; within so few minutes, their roles had already switched, even if for a short instant. Though he was not openly showing it, the captain marvelled at the prince’s solid composure. This was a young man still warm from the lap of authority, who had been flung into equal insignificance in a world he did not know how to dwell, yet here he stood; his golden hair still shone as his spirit, his eyes were still bright as they were focused. And still, he caused Grantaire to draw breath. Now, however, he appeared lost in his contemplation, prompting the captain to speak. “Enjolras, the hour is late. This day has been one of your longest yet, too, I do not doubt. Pray, take rest.”

“I cannot,” the man blurted quickly in reply, catching Grantaire unexpectedly. Startled, he enquired as to what the prince meant. “I mean, captain, that I cannot sleep surrounded by them. By my new crew-mates. In my mind I cannot help but run through their lives, their families’ lives. I see the prices above their heads, the graves already dug out for them which lie in wait just beyond what was yesterday my garden. I cannot sleep in that cabin below, for I can only lie awake and itch; itch to leap from my hammock and act immediately, to repay the debts those men are owed. To start the fire! A fire which would see no loss on our part, a fire which would be left burning after we pass on, after our children pass on – a fire which would torch the way for the future. We could do that, we could carve out that path for those not yet even born to walk it, I have discovered in your company – yet instead we sleep! O, captain, this time a year past, I could have slept on with ease. But I have seen your cause, and now I am restless.”

Grantaire was in awe, entirely and completely, of the man standing before him. This man was a captain in himself, and were Grantaire wearing the hat at that moment, he would have bequeathed it upon Enjolras immediately. For standing before him was the spark relit, returning to him after six years of it being absent. Yes, when first embarking upon his conquest of the sea, the bright young man had the fire in his eyes every waking moment and behind his eyelids every sleeping second. Yet with time, and with repeated failure, this flame had been trembling terribly, so dangerously close to being put out. The absinthe helped fuel it, kept it hungry, but Grantaire would be lying if he denied that his passion for revolt was weaker than what it used to be. In fact, compared to Enjolras’ new epiphany and the raw, almost fearsome vehemence which had resulted as consequence of it, Grantaire stood in the pitch darkness where Enjolras did not only hold a candle, but _was_ the candle itself. The wick ran through his veins, and the blood he longed to shed was the fire. That much was clear.

As the prince turned back to his captain now, his eyes were wild, ablaze. Grantaire felt a surging urgency to act, yet he did not know how: What was the throbbing of his temples instructing him to do? What of the burning within his ribcage; what did that advise him?

Reaching out sharply, he grabbed at Enjolras’ hand and held it tightly between his own two. “If that is so, do not let that zeal slumber. Keep it inside you, keep it smouldering, and it will be called upon when the time is right. Do not release it. Do not let it slip away; do not let it wither.  But until that time, permit yourself some rest. Let your body be put out while your conviction still burns, it will balance the two. Sleep, Enjolras.”

Some moments passed, and Grantaire released the prince’s hand. Enjolras kept it lingering in mid-air fleetingly before dropping it to his side. With a last long look at the captain, he nodded.

He was quite unable to find any words for response, though, before he walked away, descending into the cabins once more with both his heart, and mind, stirred deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, this chapter was difficult to write. i hope it worked out. finding jehan's voice proved a struggle for me - although i love them dearly, they've never come as easily to me as the likes of the others. still, i was hoping that their tale to tell would give a little insight into how jehan is, well, jehan in this universe: the contrast between their light-hearted and kindly upbringing and then the loss of their parents, as well as their subsequent desperation, i thought was a fitting justification for why jehan has that thin, crisper layer between his abundance of softness!  
> doing the majority of this chapter from enjolras' angle is also a first, so fingers crossed that it's been done well. it wasn't something i'd really planned for at first, but the story would be difficult to develop and a little more one-dimensional if i only narrated it from grantaire's perspective. ahhh and finally we have the first proper glimmer of e/r!! i said it would be a slow burning process, and as you can see, i wasn't kidding there.
> 
> overall, i hope you're still enjoying the read and that this chapter (title translated as 'the fire is lit'*) didn't disappoint. any comments or kudos would be much loved; thank you for reading!  
>    
>   
>  _*the past two chapter titles have translated as 'the storm brews' and 'brothers in arms' chronologically. i thought putting their titles in french was a nice touch - if i've got any of it incorrect, though, please let me know and i'll fix it._  
> 


	4. iv - une touche de violette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[use of swords in this chapter]**

Overnight, the sea spray had settled, its wild slapping against the wood of the ship mellowing to a soft, pleasant lapping. The wind seemed to have blown itself away as the crew of the _Abaissé_ slept, too, though this was not of good merit to the captain, who deliberated on the lack of breeze whilst pacing inside his cabin. Their vessel was on course to a port city on the opposite side of the land, making its sluggish voyage around the coast of the country very gradually indeed; they were required to dock in four days’ time, if they were to attend the party to which their crew had been invited as honourable guests: it was a similar, yet more arranged, situation to that of the tavern they had visited but two nights previously, wherein crews of pirates spread all about the land gathered to share stories, give rousing speeches and rants, and become as thoroughly and staggeringly inebriated in as short a time as they could manage. Grantaire’s men frequented these gatherings often – so often, he now realised, that they had begun to treat them a worthy substitute for real action.

For at these get-togethers, although the primary aim was that of merrymaking, the attendees were unanimous in their political doctrines, leading to a number of booming debates throughout the evening. And after participating in such a stir, one’s heart emerges from it inflated, one’s spirits soaring; a man feels as though he has already fulfilled his aim of drastic change merely by opening his mouth and hollering about it. But this self-contentment, it is unfounded, it is unknowingly hollow: in truth, no more has been achieved than before the debate. Yet the lazy activist treats such as a valuable contribution nonetheless, whether he is aware of it or not – and that, it appeared, was exactly what Grantaire and his pirates of the _Abaissé_ had been doing for a number of years. He had just not actualised this in his mind until the preceding night, when a true revolutionary had emerged before him. Enjolras’ eyes had glittered as his did, though some six years ago. And seeing that fresh passion so raw, so corporeal, made Grantaire wish to hang his head in shame. He had become indisputably passive; his eighteen-year-old lips would curl at the sight of him now, for he was a shambles.

Once Enjolras had left his company, finally surrendering to sleep, the captain had remained on deck, contemplating the events with the companionship of nothing but a rising fog and a handful of gulls flying high overhead. He walked up and down the deck, casting his mind forward to the gathering which was rearing its revolutionary head. Perhaps there, for once, he could make a real commotion; perform proper action. Yes, they could theorise loudly and cuss brashly if they wished, but maybe they could take things a step further this time: maybe they could make a concrete plan, a solid preparation for the long waited-for ultimate revolution, the last hurdle before rightful freedom and peace within the land was secured. With so many mutineers present, such plotting would be easy. All that was required for them to listen, and it would be simple. Grantaire, however, understood that he was not so readily listened to any more – what lark! the men would cry, the drunkard speaks! Their words rang not so far from the truth, too, a reality which now stung the captain. These men needed a new voice to perceive, a new face to survey; and Grantaire knew a good candidate.

Glancing at the duller sky through his cabin porthole, the captain calculated how far along the dimmed sun hung in its daily route: it was two o’clock, he deduced – about time for the humble meeting he had arranged to begin. But where were his men? They were late, is where. He turned away from the glass with a scowl, and turned his eyes to the map of the land mounted upon the wall, growing impatient. At last, after he had the time to twice name each town marked by a drawing-pin, a familiarly loud rap came at the door to his cabin. Grantaire called for the knocker to come in, and Courfeyrac bounded over the threshold with his face flustered and his chest heaving. Panting heavily, he gestured a hand around as he breathed desperately, “Deepest apologies, Captain, I overslept.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes only partially in good humour and beckoned for his first mate to step in regardless, giving space for the pair of men waiting behind him to follow. Combeferre stepped inside first, followed by Enjolras. Both appeared rather peaky, neither appearing to have caught a good night’s sleep; still, the latter looked striking. Grantaire waved them all in, repeating his greetings and asking Courfeyrac to close the door behind them. Once that was done, he clapped his hands together. “Right! Allow us to hasten to business, then. Today is your first proper day aboard the _Abaissé_ , I understand, and we have but three further before we are to make our next docking.”

At this, Courfeyrac interjected with curiosity. “So soon! For another tavern gathering, captain?”

“Aye,” Grantaire answered, “In the port city Aguemort, some leagues away. It is from where our own Bahorel hails, to your interest. But that is aside the point: my main focus in mentioning this party is to ask of the pair of you,” here he gestured to Enjolras and his knight, “some co-operation in preparation for this event. As I mentioned, neither of you have yet had chance to adjust to your sea legs and fully acclimatise to this branch of piracy you have enrolled into. For that reason, I wish to help the pair of you adjust by giving some brief lessons of guidance in this area, before we dock. What do you say of it, my friends?”

Enjolras was smiling knowingly; the captain diverted his eyes from this meaningful look as Combeferre answered him verbally: “I say it sounds a most clever idea, captain – in fact, I was considering asking for your guidance myself. There is so much to take in here, it is incredible. As a scholarly man, I am captivated. But I feel I will struggle to transfer my existing land knowledge to the sea, and so would gladly accept your help. The pair of us would, I am sure, most definitely.”

Nodding, Grantaire beamed. “Good, then it is settled! Courfeyrac and I shall learn you in the basics of piracy so well that, by the time we dock, you shall both be seasoned veterans.”

“That said,” spoke up Courfeyrac, a laugh in his voice, “the captain and I did teach ourselves originally, so the genuineness of the skill we are relaying is contestable.”

The men shared a chuckle at this as Grantaire crossed the cabin to a tall wardrobe, its front panel made of not wood as its sides were, but glass. Within the wardrobe therefore could be viewed an equally impressive as intimidating array of weaponry: cutlasses mainly, of varying length and hazard, as well as some daggers and even a row of bayonet rifles. The masses of arms were quite startling, yet no weapon had truthfully been used much heavily, save for trivial swordplay – as discussed earlier, the men had not yet done any drastic action which would require the defence such artillery would provide. Throwing open this cabinet door, Grantaire brushed his fingertips over the rows of cutlasses, taking his time before selecting a shiny group with sweeping blades and brass hand guards over the hilts. “Courfeyrac,” he called first, tossing one to his first mate, who caught it cleanly as the captain turned back to withdraw the others, “Combeferre,” – another toss and catch – “Enjolras,” – likewise – “and myself.”

After picking up the last, Grantaire closed the wardrobe door and stepped back into the centre of the cabin. “All right. Here is your primary weapon, which each of our men is equipped with: the cutlass. It is easy to master – much more so than the dress sword or rapier – yet it is equally as effective, and can not only fell an assailant in close combat but also be used on the rigging and wood of the ship. Thus, the cutlass is a weapon with many uses, as Courfeyrac and I will now exhibit. Courf, come stand yonder.”

Squaring up to his first mate, Grantaire demonstrated a number of tactics in simple swordplay: the quick-witted timing of blocking, the swift stabs, and employing the flat of the blade as a sharp baton. The pair paused every so often, inviting Enjolras and Combeferre to replicate their actions firstly against the air, then against either experienced pirate, then between each other in a mock duel of their own. It was surprising how promptly the men took to the dance; both were at ease with the cutlass in excellent speed. Their training was intensive, the rigorous sequences that Grantaire asked of them becoming greater in their intricacies and complexities each time, yet the pair fared well in most all trials. By the time they were through at last, sweat shone upon their brows and their necks and faces had reddened, their chests heaving with deep pants. Even Courfeyrac had tired, bending to put a hand on each thigh as he implored of his captain, “Enough, enough; we have practised enough. I am parched, I gasp, I ache. I call for a rest to the day.” Enjolras and Combeferre released groaned echoes of support at this proposal.

Glancing outside again, Grantaire saw unexpectedly that the dim light from earlier had already begun to bleed into nightfall. He wiped his forehead with the back of one hot hand, affirming the suggestion breathlessly. “Yes, I agree – we have duelled enough for the day. Here, replace your cutlasses in that cabinet and help yourself to the absinthe I am certain is flowing below deck. Return here tomorrow, earlier perhaps, and we shall continue our teaching. Yes?”

There came a murmur of weary agreement and Grantaire turned his back to the men, moving to open his porthole and let some saline air into the cabin. When he heard the sound of the door closing, the captain circled back, only to find that not all had left:

Enjolras still stood in the cabin, his posture straight, and his expression light. He had removed his jacket shortly into the proceedings, and the loosely-draping sleeves of his white shirt had been rolled to the elbows; Grantaire noticed that he was using his other hand to clutch the bruised and burned forearm he had shown him two nights previously. “You are still here?” he phrased questioningly, though the enquiry itself was a simple truth.

“I sparsely drink,” the handsome man said tranquilly, repeating his earlier words. Grantaire just smiled, knowing there was something Enjolras was intending to say – if there was not, he would not have stayed behind as he did now – and waited for it to be announced. “I wished to thank you, captain, for your teaching,” he followed eventually, as expected.

There was a true reverence in his tone, a veneration which Grantaire did not believe he deserved; not from this man. This was the man to revere, not he. “It is my pleasure, you are welcome,” answered Grantaire. “After all, a pirate without a cutlass is a clock without hands.” He knew fully that Enjolras’ words had carried deeper resonance than they presented on the surface – that he was being thanked for more than the swordplay lesson – but, due to his ludicrous ways, Grantaire’s response had purposely left this significance overlooked. Then, all of a sudden a belated memory came to him and he smacked his own brow – “O, _merde!_ ” he cursed, “I have let Combeferre leave without informing him of our emblem.”

With a great sigh, he waved his hand. “No matter; I’m sure he can be told at a later time. But I'll impart the information upon you, regardless, seeing as you have stayed. In short: you are surely aware that the band of our men we call pirates is a small one, and rife with mistrust. That is why the most prominent of ships have arranged between themselves a method of identification – an insignia, if you will. Its effectiveness lies in its simplicity,” the captain explained, moving a hand to his neck. Around it was knotted the purple neckerchief he was rarely seen without, its colour vivid and fierce. Now that it was drawn to Enjolras’ immediate attention, he realised that it was the same colour of the trousers Courfeyrac wore; the bellflowers Jehan used to tie back his hair. Grantaire had not said anything further, and the prince guessed that the silence was challenging him to spot the trend – he was proud that it appeared he had.

“Purple,” he answered, his voice firm. “It is the colour purple.”

The captain smiled, pleased. “Keen eyes – I commend you. You will notice that each of the crew of the _Abaissé_ have some violet on their person, likewise every other sworn pirate in our close community. It is a subtle sign, yet an effective one – and impostors have been accommodated for, too, for each man must make some slight gesture to his purple upon meeting another. If the other man touches his own purple, he can be trusted. A simple system, and one you must adhere to if you are to survive trusted.”

Enjolras was fascinated by this system that the mutineers had set up of their own thought; though it made him feel shame to admit to even himself, he had pinned the pirates as dim-witted when Combeferre had first suggested they take to the sea in their escape. Yet these men were wiser than he had judged, and he listened eagerly to the captain as he detailed their procedure. “By all means, yes, I will adhere to it readily,” he nodded ardently, rubbing his thumb across his arm quickly as he clutched it. The captain moved his eyes to this arm again, briefly, and crossed to the stout wooden dresser beside his bed. Yanking open the topmost drawer, he pulled out a swathe of silk fabric, the same which he had used to cut his neckerchief. There was still much material left, and Grantaire used the dagger in the same drawer to slice off the uneven ends until a long, clean-edged oblong was left.

Once satisfied with its cut he returned to Enjolras, who had watched him quietly all the while, still holding his damaged arm self-consciously. Upon standing before him, Grantaire cautiously touched the elbow of this arm, lifting it lightly. The prince’s hand moved away as he permitted the captain to wrap the purple fabric around his scorched skin, slowly and delicately – though he did not realise it, he was holding his breath. As Grantaire bent to knot the loose ends neatly, securing the wrapped band in place, Enjolras looked down at him. The captain straightened his back and stepped to a respectable distance. Immediately, the tension – the tenderness, even – that had been almost tangible moments earlier evaporated into the salty sea air. But Enjolras once again felt a wringing in his stomach, the same sensation he’d had following their private conversation the night previous. He was still unsure what it meant, this sharpness which splintered the air so intensely during these instances. Yet the depth in the captain’s eyes could have told him at once, if he had not refused to meet them from timidity.

 Instead, the prince looked upon his arm, now bandaged purple by Grantaire’s adept hands. After a few moments of this gazing, he found his vision to be blurring and had to blink back the sting which leapt up behind his eyeballs. “Thank you, captain,” he said tightly at last, his voice choked with sentiment. It pained the noble man to be so visibly emotional, yet he did not dare wipe his eyes. He gave a clipped nod and lowered his arm, twisting away on the spot and making to exit the cabin.

“Wait,” Grantaire called urgently, and Enjolras’ steps stopped short instantly. He turned back as the captain strode across to him, an undecipherable knowledge on his face and his lips partly open, on the brink of speaking something. He had moved forwards on a whim, longing so much to do something else before he let him leave again, yet cursed himself inwardly – it was a fool’s notion, a madman’s idea. The heavenly eyes were wide upon him now, questioning confusion written in their irises, but Grantaire dipped his head.

“No matter,” he deferred quietly. “At ease.”

His eyes bored holes into the planks of his cabin as he heard the hesitant footsteps move away, and the door swung shut again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a touch more e/r in this chapter, and a little set-up for what is to happen in the next... be patient!!  
> hopefully this chapter made for a pleasant - and informative, because that cutlass lecture wasn't made up (cheers, wikipedia my love) - read  
> if you did like it, as always, please do leave your comments or kudos. many thanks!!
> 
> edit: oh, and here's a little visual aid for grantaire's neckerchief (only i could only find it in red): http://www.rustyzipper.com/full/99639-mm1860dl.jpg


	5. v - une âme saignante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[this chapter contains strong violence, injury, and mention of pregnancy]**

His hands, but a week earlier so soft and clean, rubbed raw against the thick rope which lent him friction burns as he pulled, yanking down on it with so much force that his entire body was trembling. Opposite him, the pirate Bahorel did the same; to his left and right tugged Joly and Bossuet. Each of the others was faring better than he, their sun-beaten backs not cracking at each bend, their jaws not aching from clenching its muscles so. But they had been around much longer than Enjolras – their rhythmically measured breaths and calculated tugs of the rope showed this experience clearly. Keeping his eyes upon the hands of the man opposite him, the prince attempted to copy his pattern. The skin on his knuckles was stretched taut and the veins on his wrists flared as he threw his entire strength into pulling at the rope, mimicking Bahorel; as he progressed, he found the steady regularity coming to him also, and soon the job was not so hard. The sails were hoisted to their full splendour, billowing in the sea wind like a vast purple cloud. In this light, the silver ‘ _A’_ painted upon the cloth appeared to shimmer – the sight of it, with the knowledge of it having been hoisted up to the sun by he himself, made Enjolras grin with delight.

He tossed his head from side to side, rolling it about in circles, loosening the stiff muscles in his neck as he heard Bahorel stride over: the man slapped his back in the affable fashion the crew each used frequently, and thrust his hands to his hips as he gave a heaving sigh. “Gods!” the pirate groaned, “I am becoming out of shape for that endeavour.” It was truth that this pirate had been travelling longer than the other two, who now stood chatting beside Enjolras, yet he was hardly of a steeper age than the others. The prince smiled at him, and shook his head, saying, “O, do not slander yourself so, Bahorel. You are still much the strapping gent.”

“Gent!” the other man chortled. “I am no gent in the land’s eyes, I can tell you that much. I have not been a man to them for running on eight years now.”

“You have not?” Enjolras asked curiously, before scolding himself silently – of course he hadn’t, he was a pirate. All pirates were thought scum ashore. Reminding himself thus, he expected Bahorel to pay no heed to his comment, yet as the man scratched at the grizzle upon his cheeks it appeared he was preparing for a narrative.

“I have been sailing with the _Abaissé_ for six years. I was the first, I do recall, to be recruited. They found me atop a barrel right in this sea, bobbing in the waves.” Here he laughed, though no trace of the merriment carried up to his eyes. “That was all that was left of my old ship, you see. I had been sailing with that vessel for at least two years previous. We were all in good spirits the night we were bombarded, I remember – we had just embarked from the shore, following a short return to our home place. That’s not far from where Grantaire has us landing soon, in fact; a fishing village near Aguemort. It is a very pirate city, filled to bursting with mutineers, so we visited often. I had a maiden there, in fact.” At this point, Bahorel smiled wistfully, silently reminiscing upon her visage. Enjolras too could see her light blush, pick up her soapy scent, and touch her honeyed hair, just by looking in Bahorel’s eyes. “When we disembarked that time, the last time, O how her stomach had swollen! It was fatter than dear Feuilly’s is on course to be. The babe inside was mine, she confirmed, and I promised to return after the three months she had left to wait were up.  
                “She did not have to wait so long in the end, though. No sooner had we left were we ambushed by the royal guard, on their own vessels. They did not hesitate to blow us to smithereens where we stood helpless. Somehow, I managed to survive – I was the only soul left of our crew, forty strong before. I was certain I was going to perish, too, yet the fates had me drift over on that barrel to the _Abaissé._ ” He paused, patting the ropes of the sails fondly. “She has a way of doing that; saving men. As, I might add, does her captain – upon hearing my tale, Grantaire steered us straight back to my village. But when we returned, we were greeted by yet more woe: she had passed away from some unknown malady; I thought it to be grief. It almost struck me down, too, at that. Aye, but I was presumed dead already. So we left, back aboard the _Abaissé_. In my time with this company we have visited the Aguemort taverns a handful of times since – I have made sure to pay my respects upon each trip, and the fair captain has not minded my absence at the meetings.”

“Bahorel, I had no idea,” Enjolras replied, with a jaded heart. “I am sorry.”

“O, do not be! I live at peace. I know she waits for my return still – she just waits somewhere else,” he answered, turning his eyes to the sky and laughing. “So, my friend, that summarises to you: I am no man in the eyes of the law, for if any man I am a dead one. That said, we are all dead men here, isn’t that correct Bossuet?”

Bossuet was still nearby, with Joly, and had been horrendously messing up the delivery of the punch line to one of his attempts at humour when he was invited into the conversation; he responded with a modicum of relief, therefore, that his terrible wit had been spared. “Aye, it is the truth. Either dead men or men wanted dead, in my case. Have you heard the tale?”  
                This last was said to Enjolras, who shook his head in response. He hoped that it meant Bossuet was willing to impart it – he was so enthralled by the stories of these men, and each fresh sentence he heard only fuelled the fire inside his heart further.  
                “It’s a brief one, but I owe my ability to stand here and tell it to dear Joly – you see, he is now a wanted man too. It was three years ago, now, and I was one of seven children. Was, am, still may be – who knows? All is lost at sea but your head. Anyhow, our family was desperately poor: each of the children worked relentlessly, as did our parents. Each night, we would clutch our feeble day’s wage anxiously as we journeyed home from our separate jobs. And each night, I would return home with my youngest brother, baby-faced Alain. We met at a corner and finished the journey together.  
                “But one night, upon reaching our meeting-place, I found him being harassed by an ale-drenched man who was grabbing at his little money bag – trying to thieve his earnings! I ran over, hollering, and this drunkard turned to grab at me instead. We brawled right there in the street – I received this scar, see it? – Yet he escaped blameless. Thankfully, though, the wages were safe, and Alain and I made our way home where my parents saw to my injuries. I thought it was over, yet the following morning the police came knocking. This man, when sobered, was a prominent fellow within the town’s government, see. I was arrested for unprovoked assault and battery, and jailed, in wait to be sent to the galleys without trial. Not as lucky as I had first believed.  
                “I was saved, however, and with what valiance! Joly – we had grown up neighbours, he passable as my parents’ eighth child – broke me out, and we fled. We are both wanted men now, back upon land.”

Enjolras was more moved by this tale than he let on, for the sheer bravery and strength of the friendship it told. All his life, he had not had a friend as Bossuet had Joly. Combeferre, his footman-come-sworn sword, he was like a brother, yet their separate classes had forced them to lack this solidarity the two pirates showed: Enjolras was not permitted to spend time with his friend outside the citadel walls, and when inside they were surrounded by knights and servants, draining much of the merriment they could have had. Still, his logical friend had been the only one he’d had before the pair had stepped foot on the _Abaissé._ Initially, too, the prince had his reservations; he feared that he would be cast out at once, slandered, even attacked physically, all for the title and name in his disdainful possession. Yet he had received quite the opposite greeting: the men heralded him as a symbol of hope, an icon of optimism. For if the king’s own kin could desert him, could opt to rise against him, anybody could; anybody would. In fact, there was much talk of having him give a speech at the coming tavern gathering – Grantaire, however, had protested against this, claiming it unwise:

Not all men were shrewd or sensible as his crew; there would be many denser fellows in attendance, ones who would misinterpret the situation and cry of double-agency and grave backstabbing. No, Grantaire insisted it would be wiser to permit the news of the prince’s desertion to spread first, as it inevitably would, before having Enjolras speak out. That way, the pirates would already be inclined to believe he fought for their side; their doubts would be much lessened and their response hopefully more convivial. Some of his men had called their captain craven, but Enjolras saw his sense. So, at the meeting they very much neared, he was to remain a relatively faceless mutineer. And ultimately, though they disagreed, the rest of the _Abaissé_ had agreed to support this decision, each making oath not to reveal Enjolras’ identity; if they did, each had sworn, they would be pure traitors to both their crew and their cause. This, the prince was learning, was friendship. He had missed it.

Enjolras intended to respond to Bossuet’s story, however was interrupted by the sudden yell of Feuilly from the crow’s nest above:  “Land ahoy!”

At once, the deck was all a clamour – the men hollered to each other as they set about their preparations, and Enjolras spotted Grantaire taking to the wheel with a drink in hand. He had been rather broody since the tying of that wrist-cloth, which still covered the prince’s blistered arm: during their further meetings with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he had barely given him a second glance; in the evenings, when the crew sat in the parlour cabin, he chose seats distant to the prince and drank alone. It perplexed Enjolras, this sudden aversion towards him. Once, he had believed to have caught a reverence in Grantaire’s eyes – now, that had vanished, and Enjolras was still just as confused as before. O, gods! He did not understand a thing. Resigning to this sour fact, he looked away from the captain and followed Bahorel to the starboard side of the ship, making ready to disembark.

 

Within an hour’s time, their boots touched upon land. The _Abaissé_ had moored up beside a long line of other impressive vessels, each flying the purple flag of their revolution. Perhaps not quite inconspicuous as could be hoped, yet a stirring sight to behold nonetheless. The figureheads of the ships were burnished beautifully, the mermaids and nymphs each facing into the city as though about to glide into it like a heavenly host. It was the first time Enjolras had set foot in a city other than the royal capital, and he treated each new sight and smell his senses could perceive as an exquisite blessing. The streets were fairly amiable as the band of pirates emerged from the port – he had been informed that this city was very much aligned to the rousing revolution, however well they deceived the king in their servitude, and this worked in their favour. Seeing the purple which decorated these newly landed figures had the market-people smiling and greeting the men cordially as they passed, led by their captain in his black tricorn hat.

Grantaire walked a few paces ahead of his company, piloting their short journey through the grimy streets of Aguemort. Being a port city, the place had a distinct reek of fish, the smell mingling with oils and grease to create a stench hardly inviting to the nostrils. Its scenery was not much to the eye, either, each house crammed side-by-side to the next in the narrow, cobbled streets: these lanes were lined by beggars, orphans, and ladies of the night who began to show their made-up faces as dusk rolled out. Everybody was a lost soul here; even those who slept in warmed beds in the night time belonged out on the street. Liars, criminals, and pirates: such was Aguemort. And it stretched on, each street meandering into the next without clear intersections. Passing a familiar tailor’s shop, Grantaire supposed they were near arrived – the next thing he knew, his back was being slapped as Courfeyrac fell into step at his side, Combeferre next to him. The captain was glad that this man of the castle had settled in so well amongst the crew; it appeared his first mate had shown him the ropes well. Grantaire made a mental note to thank him for this at a later time.

“Captain, you’ll have an answer for this, I’m certain!” Courfeyrac started immediately, lively as ever. “Our friend Combeferre and I have been rowing over this since docking.”

The captain chuckled in anticipation for the amusement he was certain would follow. “Go on,” he sighed with a smile, yet it was doubtful that the first mate would have held his tongue even if he had rejected him.

Courfeyrac lit up, and began his spiel: “All right. Surely, it is not so excessive a sin to skip a wash twice or thrice a week? I insisted it is not, for here, sniff my cheek – I am as fresh as Jehan’s daisies, bathed or not! Yet here our Combeferre disagrees.”

At the mention of his name, the scholar interjected. “It is not hygienic, I must quarrel in this. I have bathed regularly all my life, that is the only way for freshness. It is not my fault that you reek of a mule!”

At this, Courfeyrac ruptured into hearty mirth, clapping his hands. “O, Combeferre, you pristine old bore! Come, captain, tell me you agree – that said, you yourself stink of a brewery. Let us ask somebody else. Enjolras! Come here! O, foolish of me – he likely even slept in the tub when _he_ was growing.”

Suddenly, though he had prior been enjoying the playful banter between the friends, Grantaire no longer wished to be part of the conversation. His steps quickened, yet were not swift enough for him to move much further ahead; as the prince jogged towards them, the captain resigned to staying in the conversation. Sneaking a glance from the corner of his eye, Grantaire spotted Enjolras to be carrying a moony smile. And when Courfeyrac teased him over his uselessness to the debate, due to him coming from such a clean abode, Enjolras laughed rather than sulked. Grantaire respected this level-headedness of his, this sweetness; traits he himself had always struggled to keep possession of.

After a time, the vigour of the conversation mellowed, and Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre to engage in other topics. This left Grantaire and Enjolras in a mildly uncomfortable quiet. The hush washed over them for some minutes before it appeared that the prince had reached his limit: speaking airily, Enjolras began: “So, this is the town of Bahorel’s origins. I was speaking to him of his past earlier, it was a woeful tale. Bossuet shared his story, too. Is it true, that Joly managed to break him from galley duty?”

“Aye, that is a truth,” Grantaire nodded his head, finding himself slipping into this exchange easily despite his inner unrest. “He helped him escape the holding cell of their town’s jailhouse. It was some feat.” Then he gave a low chuckle. “I suppose you are surprised at our Joly’s capability for such terrorism.”

Beside him, Enjolras nodded shamefully. “He struck me as a worrying soul; I could not envisage him so audaciously risking his life.”

“That is what one does for a brother, I suppose, and Bossuet and Joly are brothers if I ever knew them. That would make Bossuet Joly’s only brother, at that, so it’s no surprise the two were close. He had a sister, though – a weak young thing. The poor love passed some months before her eighth birthday, when Joly was merely twelve himself. She had contracted the pneumonic plague, the shivering demon. She did not last long. It threw him, her loss did – since her passing, Bossuet told me that he has worried as notoriously as you have recognised. The perils the gods throw us towards are petrifying things,” Grantaire finished, a melancholy note in his inflection. He threw his first proper look towards Enjolras of their entire conversation, and saw immediately the passion in his eyes, the inferno in his heart. The captain wondered, if he were to touch this man’s skin, would it scald him? The fervour boiling in his expression led him to believe so.

This time, the subsequent quiet which passed over them seemed more peaceful; Enjolras was not struck with the need to disturb this one. He did not have much need to, however, for shortly after Grantaire recounted Joly’s tale he discovered the tavern standing before his company: the noise from within was a tumultuous racket, all lamps inside the pub lit. They cast grotesque silhouettes against the dense glass of the inn’s windows – the captain watched these shifting shadows as he approached the front door, and gave a firm rap of the iron knocker upon its rotting wood. Having announced his name and vessel Grantaire was invited in immediately, stepping with a smile into the chaos inside. Enjolras and the rest of the _Abaissé_ company followed behind, and all were greeted with bellowed salutations and raised beer tankards as they diffused about the hot room.

By and large, following the initial round of greetings, Enjolras found himself mainly overlooked by the others inside the tavern; a pleasant blessing. He had feared being recognised instantly upon entering, and being tossed out only moments after – to his enormous relief, though, this did not happen. Instead, he bided his time mostly with his own crew, though through his friends was introduced to faces of the pirate circles whom he had not yet met. Over the course of a couple of hours, too, several stirring speeches were delivered by beet-faced and tipsy men whose words carried equal weight as their bellies. Enjolras applauded and cheered at each, fully invested in every moment of this incomparable new experience. Following the third discourse, the prince even took it upon himself to offer the acquaintances around him another round of ale, on him. He himself had been slid a beer earlier, yet had nursed it for a staggering time; the young man was too enthused by the rowdy activity around him to waste any attention on drink.

Still, he understood that the men sitting beside him at the bar drank like their stomachs were bottomless, and supposed it would be an amiable way to earn their favour. Beaming, he moved to the counter and turned to the barmaid, whose eyelashes batted at once upon seeing him. “Evening,” Enjolras smiled endearingly. “I'll have a round of ale for those fellows there, if you may.” The barmaid tossed her waved hair over her shoulder and giggled as the prince put in his order, though he was certain that he hadn’t used much wit. A mystery. She set about preparing the drinks – of which there were to be a number – as Enjolras let his eyes turn back across the tavern: that was when he noticed Grantaire, seated at a booth with two men the prince did not recognise. Mountains of empty bottles and glasses were cluttered at his table, and Enjolras was struck strongly with déjà-vu: this scene was near identical to the first time Combeferre had pointed out the captain to him.

Except, as Enjolras watched, he saw one difference unfold – their faces fair and rouged as a sea of roses, their lips full cupid’s bows, a trio of young maidens were smiling as they approached Grantaire’s table. The men beside him returned the coy grins and budged over in their seats, inviting the young women to join them: within moments, their arms had snaked around the hips of the maids and their cheeks were being brushed affectionately in return. The prettiest of the women, a dazzling lady with fiery auburn hair, was settling herself upon Grantaire’s lap as Enjolras tore his head away, face burning. But in cruel misfortune, if he had held his watch just a second further he would have seen the captain’s eyes not on the redhead at his side, but rather on the blond at the bar.

Instead, he fixed his stare upon the surface before him, his previous joviality now nowhere to be found. The first few of the beer tankards was laid down by the barmaid, and a hairy hand reached out for one right beneath Enjolras’ nose. Looking up, he saw that it was a man whose name he had heard mentioned as Babet by one of others. This hulking man was a member of the crew who sailed upon the _Patron-Minette_ , captained by a wicked yet pretty-faced youth of the name Montparnasse: this young vagrant with chilling danger in his eyes had given a speech earlier, in which the prince was fairly certain he confessed to serial murder. But the voice of the giant who gulped down the ale beside Enjolras now, draining the tankard in one, he had not yet heard. Enjolras was in no disposition to fire up a conversation now, however, his mind a hundred leagues elsewhere and his body shaken and clammy. That was why he barely heard the brutish Babet grunt a thanks as he slammed the emptied tankard back down upon the bar; why he merely nodded listlessly in response… why he wholly forgot to return the subtle touching of purple as Babet tapped his own plum bandana—

Within a second flat, Enjolras’ head slammed against the floorboards. Babet had sent his meaty fist swinging at the prince’s jaw, and as the blow connected with Enjolras’ skin his nerves felt as though they had each and all burst simultaneously. Then came the second strike, a harsh kick which knocked the air from his lungs. Gasping for breath, Enjolras’ body curled up as he recoiled from the swing of the boot. But Babet did not relent so easily – grabbing at his ringlets, the beast wrenched him up from the floor; Enjolras’ head was set alight. The next punch came swiftly, connecting solidly with his cheek. He felt as though all control of his limbs had been lost, as if his soul had floated separate from his body as the pounds kept coming and the blood began to spill – yet with each fresh hit, he rushed back to his breaking body. A copper taste filled his mouth as Babet smashed his head against the bar itself, pinning him down so strongly and at such a twisted angle that Enjolras feared his neck would snap.

At the first loud strike in this unfolding horror, Grantaire’s head had jerked up from across the room. He hadn’t been able to see the face of the quivering heap at the infamous Babet's feet, yet his heart had leapt into his mouth in fear immediately regardless: tearing his eyes across the room, he scanned the tavern wildly for one man in particular as the _Patron-Minette_ thug wreaked chaos. But Enjolras was nowhere to be found – as the man on the floor rolled over, coiling up as he was kicked cruelly, Grantaire found him.

Without delay he surged to his feet, almost knocking the woman who had draped herself across him to the floor, and wrestled his way free from the booth, sprinting across the pub. “BABET!” he roared, drawing back a fist as he reached the brawny man, who had Enjolras’ head crushed between his beefy hand and the wooden bar. Grantaire’s thunderous snarl had caught the pirate by surprise, and he was late to look up as the captain neared him – too late, at that. Grabbing Babet, Grantaire slammed his own fist into the man with all his might. Behind him he heard some of his men hollering amidst the calamitous pandemonium, they also rushing forward to Enjolras’ aid. Grantaire received a brutal strike to the nose in return for his own punch, and heard the harsh _crack_ of bone. But mercifully, after that the pirate ceased his beating – he was brainless as he was big, and this sudden catastrophe had likely stunned him.

Wiping away the streams of scarlet which had begun to pour from his nostrils with the back of his aching hand, Grantaire panted for breath as he turned desperately back to Enjolras: quaking and juddering, blood was gushing from all over his face; it painted his paleness a violent ruby as Grantaire kneeled at his side, throwing his arms to the prince’s shoulders to inspect his injuries.

Meanwhile, the men of the _Abaissé_ had swarmed round Babet.  
           “What in seven hells provoked this?”; “You brute!”; “You beast!”; “You swine!”; “This man did nothing unto you!”  
Dimly, Babet shrugged his shoulders – besides a reddened face and neck, he was unharmed by the entire ordeal. “He didn’ show purple,” he muttered in his slurred commoner’s tongue.  This weak defence was not received well –   
           “I'll show you purple!”; “I'll bloody show you purple!”; “I'll show it twice!”

But Grantaire’s head was pounding. “Enough!” he called for his men to be silenced as Enjolras heaved a choked cough, the movement spattering the floor with clots of blood; at this time, he was making no sound besides a low, pained groaning and that cough. The captain continued once his bark had achieved the order it commanded. “Men – at ease. Babet, the rest of you – take my honest word that this man can be trusted.” Then he lifted Enjolras’ arm around his own shoulder, and staggered the both of them to their feet. Courfeyrac and Combeferre started towards him, meaning to assist, but Grantaire motioned them to stay where they were. “I shall escort our man back to the ship myself,” he said, his voice gravely detached.

At that, ensuring his fallen _amour_ was propped firmly against his side; Grantaire bade the landlord a good-night as he walked himself and Enjolras unsteadily from the silenced tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohh god, it's all kicked off!! i'm not fully satisfied with this chapter but i can't find the words to improve it so i've just decided to leave it as it is. hopefully the intensity i wanted in it is clear - enjolras has been pretty badly hurt, in critical condition as it stands, poor angel, and grantaire is _kicking himself_ right now for insisting on ignoring him.  
>  in this chapter i also slipped in a bit of parnasse and the patron-minette because i couldn't go entirely without them, and what better chance to drop them in as some rogues?
> 
> finally, as i said before, this chapter was difficult to write, so any kudos or comments would be much, much appreciated. thanks for reading!


	6. vi - la déité

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[description of injury in this chapter]**

Stumbling from the sweltering heat of the tavern, each hair upon Grantaire's skin stood to attention as they emerged into the frosty chill of the night. He pressed a hand against Enjolras' back to support the drowsy, wingless angel who could not stand supported upon his bruised legs alone. As the captain touched the prince's back he found it damp ― whether from spilled ale or blood, there was no way of telling just yet. All Grantaire knew of now was that he had to drag his prince to safety as swiftly as was possible: Enjolras' breaths had begun to fall more slowly now, the gaps between each inhale and exhale stretching longer and the breathing itself beginning to sound rattling and throttled. Determination heated Grantaire’s shivering body and the spark leapt up in his eyes as he walked the man forwards, barely able to recognise the town beneath the quilted darkness – that did not help his efforts. Onwards, onwards they staggered, Grantaire's fretting lending him a glistening sweat across his brow. Constantly he spoke to Enjolras, his fast and urgent murmurs carrying the frenzy of a madman: "Not far, not far; stay close _amour_ , stay near, there is not far to go; stay here, keep your eyes here, _amour_ , do not sail. Do not sail from me now, do not depart..."   
  
Grantaire wiped Enjolras' lips as he spluttered up even more blood on their way; he must have sustained injury to his gums. At least, that was the choice of terror which Grantaire clung to, for he understood that any other cause of that meant much worse. No; the captain refused to think of anything so slightly pertaining to fatality. He had to reach the _Abaissé_. He had to keep Enjolras safe. This was a duty he had sworn himself into silently as the prince had taken his own oath, the very moment he had first stepped on board Grantaire’s ship. From that moment on, the captain knew his health would be held to his accountability – whether Enjolras needed the help or elsewise, Grantaire had obligated himself to give it no matter what cost. That was the promise which he was fulfilling now; limping stonily through the deserted streets of Aguemort, blood staining his hands, the burden at his side was one sent to his care surely from above – and the captain was not one to defy the gods.

They had reached roughly halfway when the rain came. The first drop hit Grantaire hard upon the forehead; within but moments, this droplet had blossomed into a hammering downpour. Cold, heavy lashes of the cloudburst had Grantaire’s entire body drenched before he’d even had the time to process it. But even as his vision blurred, beads of rain clinging to his eye-lashes, his mind remained firmly set upon Enjolras: halting, Grantaire secured the arm which draped loosely over his shoulder and bent his knees; wobbling slightly, he managed to lift Enjolras’ legs clean from the ground. The prince’s head lolled backwards as he was carried, his eyes still closed. Grantaire could not bear to look upon the bloodied face lest he burst into tears right there, shuffling his feet as quickly as possible beneath the torrents wreaked upon them by the heavens. O, how he cursed the fates now! Grantaire cursed them all; each god and goddess of the past, of the present, and of the future were admonished beneath that tumultuous black sky.

But at last, soaked through to the skin, he saw it: the light of the port, coming nearer to them now. “Look!” he yelled to Enjolras, almost hysterically, “Here she comes! She has found us, the _Abaissé_ , she draws close. Or do we draw close to her? I do not know, _amour_ , I am lost! Do you breathe still? Breathe to me your words, I plea. I need them, I need their warmth. I need you!” He rushed across the stones of the dock, losing his breath and his speech as he hurried. Quickly enough, the hull of the _Abaissé_ towered over them, and Grantaire climbed up to her decks in a frenzy. Had Enjolras not been in his arms, he would have bent to kiss the very planks on which his feet at last stood. A few strides more across the deck, and he entered his cabin: its burgundy throws caught the thin stream of moonlight streaking in through the porthole, and Grantaire gave a cry of relief. He crossed over to the bed, leaning over it to set Enjolras’ motionless body down. Then he dashed to the cabinet, scouring its drawers for a match – once the candles he kept in the room had been lit and he could finally see, the captain then turned his rushing to the search for a bowl and cloth. Fetching some warm water, he let the cloth soak in the bowl whilst finally he hunted out a bottle of salve.

                “Here, now, here,” he whispered, his voice cracked, as he dabbed the damp cloth to Enjolras’ face, gently lifting off the dried blood. The number of bruises in bloom upon his face, the angry cuts around his eyebrow and lips, the startling sight of them; it was nearly too much for Grantaire – his stomach twisted and his veins froze as he wiped away yet more and more blood. Then, he washed the prince’s neck, uncovering further bruising. The captain removed Enjolras’ jacket carefully, having already flung his own across the back of a chair, and saw that the blond’s shirt also was blemished crimson. Grantaire’s fingers were numb and icy as he tentatively pushed up the hem of the shirt, revealing Enjolras’ bloodied abdomen. His throat was parched as he moved the cloth to wipe at the wounds sustained on his stomach, no doubt from the sickening blows dealt there by Babet's iron-booted foot.

All of the blood dealt with, it was then time for Grantaire to apply the healing salve, which he had procured a bottle of from a travelling market some years previously. The elderly herbalist who had sold it to him, her eyes wrinkled and her skin leathered, had warned that he save it for a crisis alone: it carried a deep magic, she had vowed lowly, and it was not to be used up recklessly. Peculiarly enough, despite his great scoffing and inner cynicism at the sheer notion, here the little glass phial remained, its cork not once removed until now. Uncorking the salve deftly, he pressed a forefinger to its rim and tipped the bottle upside-down, letting the contents ooze measuredly onto his fingertip. Then, he moved his hand to rest gently upon the side of Enjolras’ face: with a delicate touch, so light their skin barely met, he dabbed the salve onto his cut eyebrow.

Grantaire had felt a pulse before, weak yet steady, as he’d been tending to the prince’s neck, but only now did Enjolras’ eyelids flutter – they opened partially, then flickered closed again, repeating this faint action for a few seconds before they finally settled on open, and the deep blue irises rested their gaze upon the captain. Some moments passed of a quiet staring, and Grantaire slowly withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I must have woken you.”

Hazily, Enjolras inclined his head feebly to deny it: “It’s all right… I don’t remember even falling to sleep.” His eyes were still hooded, and his lips swollen so that his words had a lethargic, mumbled quality; this only crushed Grantaire further.  
                “You fell unconscious on your way here,” he answered, caution in his tone. Enjolras nodded slowly, with astounding tranquillity for a man just emerging from a vicious attack.  
                “Ay,” the prince said, marvel entering his tone, “I remember now, because I dreamed in the time. I dreamt that I was on the sea, being waded through the waves by – O, by – I cannot remember which saint it was, but I was in their arms.”  
                At this Grantaire’s eyes dropped, and he lowered his hand to his lap. Noticing the movement, Enjolras was struck by an extraordinary awareness: “It was you, captain; you carried me here.”  
                Grantaire hesitated, his mind conflicted. It took him some whole seconds before he relented to an answer, murmured quietly and humbly. “I did.”  
                “Then you are the saint.”  
                “I am no saint, O, not by a hundred leagues. No; if any, the saint was in my arms.”

                Following his final words, Grantaire’s face flickered with half a sorrowed smile, turning his head away to contemplate the conversation so rapidly rising to precarious points before he spoke another sentence: what was he doing! He was a fool if ever he claimed to comprehend the term. Aye, a man a town over could turn to a scholar and ask of him, what is a fool? And the answer of this academic would most undoubtedly be ‘Grantaire, the drunkard captain; Grantaire, the fellow who vowed to lead yet only follows; Grantaire, whose cause appears more to save up absinthe than save his land. Grantaire the wreck who leads the ship, who keeps it moored when it should be sailing into the future, sailing straight into the unknown with its banners streaming and its crew screaming with valiant defiance. Yet instead it lingers, uncomfortable and out of its own depth as its wretched skipper; it lingers there, travelling nowhere, and one day it shall sink and its wood shall rot to dust. No legacy left behind, no goals fulfilled – no goals to start with, at that. The man with the big ideas and little capacity to act upon them. The man who claims to believe in the truth, yet whom believes in nothing; nothing save for his drink. That is a fool, my colleague. That is Grantaire.’ And at this disclosure the other man would nod wistfully, enlightened, and affirm: ‘Yes, such a man is a fool. What a miserable soul!’

                But Enjolras was not thinking such; O, far from it – currently spluttering around the prince’s bruised and ragged skull was an infinite spectrum of thoughts, of qualms, of emotions, yet none suggested that the man perched at his side was a fool. Rather, they insisted he was anything but: it had taken so long for his mind to organise itself, to rear its gaze away from the narrow strait of the new life he had planned out – cementing himself into the bubbling revolution, at last free from his father’s iron grip, at last at the helm of a new age, the dawn of a brand new daybreak; one which vanquished the darkness which persisted before it and burned clear the route to recovery. This had been the path of thoughts which had occupied his brain for weeks on end, for at least a year prior even making that petrifying escape from his citadel captivity; Enjolras had been so focused on it, that he had been blind to the changes within him, within his heart: Once fixed solely upon making these changes be actualised, a new element had stepped forward, intruding into his attentions; this invader had gnawed at the farthest corner of his mind for some time, yet he had batted him away with an air of confusion, lending himself an air of bewilderment so as to keep at bay the truth he knew inside.  
                It was this quiet inner confession, told to himself with the awed whisper of a holy man only just treading upon his epiphany, which tugged Enjolras onwards. “Grantaire,” he said, and the captain flinched; it was the first time, he realised, that the prince had spoken his name, and the word had never sounded so blessed until it was under command of his tongue. Grantaire’s stomach panged and he wished for Enjolras to repeat it, to speak softly his name once more; over and over. It would be his lullaby, his hymn, his scripture. It would ease him to sleep tenderly at night and wake him warmly in the morning. O, how he craved to hear it spoken once more! He would have no care for absinthe if he could read those lips say his name again—  
                “I…  I am lost,” was what followed instead, yet the captain gave his full attention as Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut and blinked rapidly before continuing, breathing a soft sigh. “I believed, before I stepped onto the _Abaissé_ , that I had already had this life’s epiphany. That was, I thought the realisation that I was not of my father’s creed… I thought that that was the greatest revelation I was to receive in all my days; the only revelation which mattered. Yet then I chose this ship to board, and I met you, you Grantaire with your ridiculous drinking and ludicrous slumbering beneath the stars and, O! How I loved it all, how I loved all of it – how I loved…”  
                As his words trailed away, a bead of blood formed from the cut upon Enjolras’ eyebrow, trickling slowly down his temple. Grantaire moved his hand instinctively to wipe away this drop of ruby with the padded flesh of his thumb, but even once he had wiped it, his other fingers, resting upon the side of Enjolras’ face, stayed there.

                Both men looked upon the other intently, and their eyes told all they needed to know.

Moving to place the fingertips of his free hand upon Enjolras’ other cheek, Grantaire’s nerve was trembling, yet his faith remained unshaken. The prince’s eyes closed as the captain leaned in gradually, until their foreheads almost touched. Breathless, Grantaire’s courage wavered as he hesitated to murmur softly, “Do you permit it?”  
                Beneath his hands, Enjolras nodded silently; and Grantaire kissed him.  
Their lips met gently at first, almost timidly; where the prince’s were supple, smooth, the captain’s were chapped and rough – but the kiss deepened, until soon it was difficult to determine whose lips were whose. As Grantaire pulled back to tilt his head, his eyes shut tightly in his desperate fervour, their faces met again with a delicate brush of the nose; he moved a hand from where it had cupped Enjolras’ cheek to rest behind his head, holding him closer, almost cradling the angel before him – as he did, his lips parted, and the air his _amour_ had just breathed fell deep into his own lungs, filling them up with a bursting, aching glow. Enjolras tasted the sweet absinthe in the captain’s breath; it was a knotty fusion of a refreshing herb and a rich, dark liquorice, and in that instant the prince became an alcoholic. His heart raced, simultaneously shattering and mending itself, singing with joy as it fell apart and Grantaire put it back together, over and over, each time their lips touched.  
                The captain moved his mouth to Enjolras’ jaw, planting there the most delicate kiss he had given yet; this kiss touched his bruised skin, setting it alight while somehow soothing it, and the prince gasped. He felt Grantaire’s lips curve up at the sound, and the kisses progressed to his neck, to his collarbone – with each fresh spot, Enjolras’ voice caught in his throat. He shifted his shaking hands to touch the captain’s face, to let his fingertips trail along the bristly stubble upon his jaw, to move up to his wild mass of black curls and be buried there, deep in the tangles of Grantaire’s hair.  
                All the while, the captain was murmuring with a thick voice these rapid successions of words, sentences which strung together as powerfully as they strung his heart.  
                “ _Je vis d'amour et d'eau douce, je vis de toi; dans tes bras c’est mon destin, dans tes yeux c’est mon_ _cœur._ _Tu me manques, même quand tu es à côté de moi, mes étoiles, ma lune… mon amour— mon Enjolras._ ”

Holding each other tightly, desperately, their kisses scorched on with this passion until at last they surrendered to an exhausted sleep, entwined atop the covers, their faces lit only by the dying slivers of the moon.


	7. vii - le ciel s'assombrit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **[description of violence in this chapter]**

Streaming in softly from the east, faint rays of early morning sunlight trailed across the cabin, illuminating everything with a pale yellow, a gentle light. These rays bounced off the glass of an empty phial on the rug, casting multicoloured, stained-glass patches upon the walls; they snaked over the waistcoat discarded in a heap on the wooden floor, drying it steadily, for it was still damp from the previous night’s downpour; they caught the flecks of dust floating in the air and made them dance, a shimmering ballet. This light also shone subtly upon the sleeping figure of Enjolras, making his golden hair gleam when he shifted in his sleep. Grantaire watched it. He had stirred a short while ago, yet had not budged an inch in this time, lying tranquil in their embrace. With Enjolras’ head buried in his neck, the captain’s skin was warm where the prince’s cheek touched it; Grantaire listened to his breathing. He paced himself with the long inhale, the softly whistling exhale. Whenever there was a hitch in their timing, his heart jolted and he panicked anxiously for a splintered moment before the next breath followed, and the steady measure resumed, reassuring him. Their legs had become intertwined overnight, too, tangling the couple together in body as well as heart.

As the comforting hush of the early hours passed by, Grantaire found himself gently curling tendrils of his sleeping _amour_ ’s hair between his fingers as he lost himself in thought. So much had changed in a single moment, their harmony shifting immediately; but it had shifted for the better. A night earlier, if a deity themselves had ventured down from on high to pre-inform the captain of what was to come, he would have laughed bitterly – what a jest! Grantaire would have exclaimed, believing such a situation to be entirely impossible, hugely improbable, merely a foolish projection of his mind – a far-fetched notion that would have to be boxed away in a far-flung pocket of his thoughts, and should only have been rediscovered and perused when his stomach sloshed with absinthe. Any time before then, any more sober a mind, and the weight the desire pressed upon him would be crushing.  
                Now, though, seeing it unboxed right before him, trailing his fingertips along Enjolras’ hairline, Grantaire marvelled at the unpredictability of the fates. He had sealed his own destiny away in doubt and disbelief, yet all the while it had been brewing for him. A dab of patience, a leap of faith, and the gods had delivered for him. He blessed them now internally, a smile creeping across his cheeks.

Releasing a soft groan, Enjolras roused gradually, stirring his head from Grantaire’s neck and leaning back into one of the pillows. The captain shushed him soothingly as the prince winced from the movement, and then he planted a tender kiss upon his forehead. Enjolras blinked slowly a few times, sighing quietly before mumbling foggily, “I’m exhausted.”  
                “Go back to sleep,” Grantaire whispered in reply, and the prince did close his eyes again, but not for long. He shook his head, making his fingers dance disjointedly over the back of Grantaire’s hand which lay flat against the mattress. But the captain knew he was still frail, and so moved his other hand to cover it, stopping Enjolras gently. “You need rest,” he repeated. “We haven’t got a new destination for today, we are not sailing – you won’t miss anything.”  
                “I will miss you,” he answered solemnly, and Grantaire laughed, bittersweet. He reached to stroke Enjolras’ cheek again, craving another touch of his _amour_ , still suspended in disbelief, still awed, before budging away and up from the bed. He slid on a shirt, buttoning it messily, and splashed cold water across his cheeks. From the bed, Enjolras watched the other man move, his heart heavy. He longed to join him in the morning preparations, to leave the cabin with him hand-in-hand; such could only ever be a flight of the imagination, however. He understood the concealment required, understood the compromise which had to be made – he understood, certainly, but that is not to say that he did not ache over it. Grantaire touched his hand before he left, telling Enjolras that he would return frequently throughout the day; praying him to take some rest. The prince insisted that he was not tired, that he was perfectly well, yet mere moments following the captain’s departure, his eyelids felt as though they were made of lead; and he drifted to sleep.

Grantaire adjusted his neckerchief as he exited the cabin, shutting the door carefully behind him. The sun was warm and low, the waters calm, and the world truly felt as though it was holding a reverent vigil to the couple. He smiled. In front of him, the dock of Aguemort lay empty, the city quiet. At first glance, he thought the deck also to be barren of people – it was certainly still – yet at the far end, nearest to the port entrance, Grantaire spotted movement. His fingers moved to the brass hilt of his cutlass, his muscles tensing, but the figure who ran toward the _Abaissé_ and clambered up onto her deck was most definitely a familiar one.  
                “Joly!” the captain called over brightly, for his disposition was again radiant, still blessed by Enjolras’ touch. “It is unlike you to return so late – or would early be the proper term now?” Grantaire laughed, but the mutineer looked even more concerned than usual as he rushed across the deck, running to his captain.  
                “O, gods, I had no idea! Nobody told me until I crossed by Jehan but five minutes ago – I was not in the tavern last night, I had gone to – I missed everything, is he safe? I have my kit, it is below deck, I should fetch it! Or is he… did I fail you? Pray, tell me I am not too late.”  
                For a while, Grantaire was utterly perplexed – only when Joly made reference to his doctor’s equipment did the anxious babbling make sense to the captain. For Joly was learned in medicine, having been training before he committed the jail break with Bossuet: even now he still retained his knowledge and apparatus, the latter stored in the lower deck of the _Abaissé._ The crew were wont to use it following visits to land; it was a handy way to patch up any petty injuries caused by drunkenness or a loose tongue and angered stranger. And Joly was a handy medic, too, always glad to help out his crewmates if they so needed his talents.

Casting his mind back to the previous night, Grantaire realised that Joly had indeed been absent from the tavern – he did not recall seeing his face amongst those whom had surged forward to help Enjolras, nor even beforehand, at the bar or in a booth. So it made sense, therefore, that only now was the medic learning of the fight, and the injuries which had accompanied it. Given Joly’s dreadful tendency to worry, also, it was congruent that he’d run fast as possible to the _Abaissé_. Putting out a hand to calm him now, Grantaire pulled a handkerchief from one of the loops in his waistband and smiled reassuringly, passing it to Joly. “Here, mop your brow, take a breath. Everything is well with Enjolras – he’s in there, resting.” The captain raised a hand to signal silence as Joly tried to interject frenetically. “Don’t be anxious, dear Joly, he is all right, I can assure you that myself. I mopped his wounds clean with warm water – just as you showed me when our Bahorel sliced his leg in that cutlass fight, do you remember? I used a salve, too. He is resting up fine.”  
                Joly nodded, still wringing his hands, yet calmer at last. Relieved, he smiled. “Good, yes, that’s good. Do you want me to stay with him? I'll keep watch.”  
                “It won’t be needed, he’s on the mend,” Grantaire shook his head, but Joly persisted – he was a good friend, it couldn’t be contested.  
                “I don’t wish to disobey your orders, captain, but I should like to check in on him regularly regardless.”  
                Reluctantly, Grantaire nodded. “That would be very well, Joly. Thank you.” Then a thought entered his mind. “Joly, tell me – is he settling in fine, Enjolras, is he fitting in? Combeferre, also. Are they well within the crew?”  
                Joly did not hesitate to pause for one moment – his answer came instantly, assuredly and cheerily. “O, of course, captain! I promise you, they are perfectly splendid among us. Combeferre tells the most fascinating recounts of stunning literature, and Enjolras can describe some ancient battle of old so well that I feel the mud on my boots! And Feuilly has taught the adviser to make fans like his own, and young Jehan even allowed Enjolras to write upon those scribbled planks of theirs.”  
                “He did? Where is it?”  
                Grantaire’s intrigue was captured – he was pleased at the news of their settling in, yet this was replaced swiftly with different interest when he heard that the prince had written something: without appearing too much like he was prying, the captain was most interested in reading it. At his question, though, Joly seemed a loss – he scratched his head as he tried to remember, yet eventually had to merely shrug, “I apologise, captain, I cannot remember for the life of me.”  
                “No matter, don’t worry. Look! —is that Courfeyrac who climbs up now?”

Dishevelled as a street ruffian, the first mate was stumbling onto the deck, grabbing tight hold of the rigging to steady himself. Looking up, he spotted the two pirates catching sight of him in turn and grinned, raising his free hand in genial salutation before releasing the rope and beginning to stagger towards them. His jacket was off-kilter and his shirt haphazardly tucked in, and as he neared them Grantaire could smell the strong perfume of a lady drenched upon his skin. He chuckled; he had expected nothing else. Except one difference did prevail, and the captain caught sight of it as his first mate turned his head to scratch his cheek – a bulbous, swollen ring of purple blemishes circled his eye. It looked most painful, so much so that it took Grantaire aback: as Courfeyrac greeted them both, he heard Joly draw breath too.  
                “Gods,” the captain whistled, pointing at his first mate’s face. “Where did you earn that beauty?”  
                It took a moment for Courfeyrac to process what he was being asked, but when he touched his fingers to his eye and winced, it appeared to dawn on him. “Ah—it was gifted to me in the tavern last night. A present from Montparnasse, the swift little cad.”  
                “Montparnasse?” Joly sounded perplexed as he interrupted, and Grantaire quickly relayed to him the other captain’s connection to the previous night’s skirmish: “The man whom Enjolras was tackled by was Babet, one of ‘Parnasse’s men of the _Patron-Minette._ ”  
                At the mention of the ship, Courfeyrac spat upon the floor. “I have always loathed that band of villains. Murderers and brutes, they are, the whole of them—it is the truth, a truth that I thought prudent to share with them last night.”  
                Grantaire groaned heavily, sighing at his first mate’s rashness as the man continued.  
                “It was but a minute after you guided Enjolras out, captain: I turned to Montparnasse and I told him such, that he was a foul villain, and that’s when he punched me. I was lucky, though—Bahorel had come to my aid as I had condemned ‘Parnasse, and the other fellow – Babet, is it? – rounded upon him. He was carrying a smashed bottle in one hand… it was an ugly sight. Which reminds me, Joly, would you spare some bandages? Bahorel’s arm was badly scratched. We cleaned the wound, but it could still fester.”  
                Joly nodded, eyebrows knotting together. Though retaining that persisting trace of anguish, his face flourished now with a harder tone; anger. He roughed a hand over his face, scratching at his cheek and sighing before he spoke.  
                “It is astonishing, how prone men are to ailment – usually inflicted upon themselves, if you’ll pardon my nerve to say so, Courf – it just staggers me, that is all, how many wounds are sprung from damaged pride, and bones bruised by stubbornness. Do you not agree? It is madness! And yet we carry on with it every day. It is as if man would become extinguished entirely if he stopped competing from bolstered pride...” Joly allowed his spiel to trail away as he threw his head back for a yawn, and the first mate and his captain shared their own pointed glance.  
                “Joly, I fear you’re right,” started Courfeyrac. “Come, let’s have a drink over it and ease our minds. It was a turbulent night for all.” He turned here to Grantaire, extending the invitation. “Captain?”  
                But Grantaire tossed his head. “I’ve just drunk, I am fine. Ay, it isn’t like me to pass up the drink, I know, but I need to rest. No, no, nothing is wrong with me – I’m quite all right. Now go have your ale, and don’t stop until you are stumbling!”  
                The party shared a chuckle, a slap on the shoulder, and the men departed. Grantaire stood upon the deck alone, then, closing his eyes to spare for himself a moment of quiet reflection. He inhaled the sharpness of the air, felt the sea spray wash lightly over his cheeks.

He stood there for quite some time before he was next called upon – and this time, by a most unexpected and unwanted guest: this man’s voice shouted up to him from the stones of the docks, and was a voice he had heard but the night before – it was that of Montparnasse. _Speak of the Devil, and the Devil shall appear_ , the captain was supposing to himself bitterly as he strode across the _Abaissé’s_ deck to regard the man below. The other captain was alone, and carried with him an air a person could have easily considered ruefulness, if they did not know Montparnasse. His attire was its usual ebony black, his notable gentleman’s top hat cocked upon his head as normally – he claimed to wear it in irony, as a token of spite against the bourgeois citizens who condemned men like himself; Grantaire had never had the time for it, perceiving it pretentious and fanciful – but his eyes had dimmed their mischievous glint substantially, and were cast down.  
                Grantaire chose to show the crooked captain no hospitality as his mind turned back to Courfeyrac’s swollen eye; to Enjolras, lying battered and bloodied beside him as he had cleaned his wounds. His wounds had been caused by Montparnasse just as Courfeyrac’s had – even though it was one of his men who had committed the cruelty, and not he personally, it was the captain to whom the blame was to be attested. That the captain bears the responsibility of each of his crew was a doctrine Grantaire had always held firm belief in – that is why, glaring down at the man with contempt, his words were so daggered with malice as he spoke at last:  
                “What do you want, ‘Parnasse? I see you lack your pet hounds. Does that mean you’re not here to finish what you started?”  
                The captain of the _Patron-Minette_ visibly flinched at this, snapping his head up as malevolence flared across his features. Yet he appeared to calm himself quickly, exhaling patiently before he responded with a determinedly level tone. “I am here to finish this, that is true, but not with violence – with only words.”  
                “Words can be violent as fists.”  
                “These ones are not.”  
                Saying this sincerely, Montparnasse adjusted his waistcoat like a soldier would stoically straighten his uniform, before he continued: “On behalf of my crew, I apologise for the misdoings towards your men last evening. Such a skirmish will not occur again, I guarantee that – instead, let us stay a jovial night here further. Come to the _Patron-Minette_ this dusk. Your crew and others can join mine for drinks and another meeting.”

Grantaire watched Montparnasse carefully as he spoke, too wary to believe a single syllable spoken – and as he finished, the captain noticed the wickedness sparking up inside the younger man’s eyes again. He sensed a deception, a snare, so shook his head, smirking.  
                “So touching a gesture, Montparnasse; so noble, so honourable of you! But the _Abaissé_ declines the offer. We have no desire to sup with your crew this evening.”  
                He had spoken boldly, but at the other captain’s next words, uttered with that terrible glint still in his eyes, Grantaire’s smirk was washed away near immediately. For Montparnasse laughed coldly as he nodded, playing the role, acting an innocent as he held up his hands and replied, “Of course – how foolish of me! To ask you to linger in festivities when you will undoubtedly be keen to set sail for Cariotte Island in the morning.”  
                This stopped Grantaire short. His muscles tensed and his blood chilled; he was at a loss. How did this rogue know his plans? They were harmless, of course – the trip to the small island was purely for a pleasant excursion – but that Montparnasse was aware of them in the first place set the captain on edge. How much more could the man be aware of?  
                Folding his arms, he tried to maintain a stoic air, despite how much it pained him to give the villain this satisfaction in his enquiry. “Where did you learn that?”  
                Montparnasse was relishing each second of this exchange. “I heard from your crew last night. Do not be so defensive, Grantaire, I mean nothing by it – enjoy your trip. Cariotte is a beautiful island.” He laughed, and the air froze as it left his curved lips. Shifting from one foot to another, the rival captain then turned away  – Grantaire moved to call for him to wait, but was interrupted as Montparnasse added a final, dreadful afterword: “It is fit for a king.”               

Grantaire’s heart leapt into his throat. His lungs constricted; his chest felt tight, as though it was being pressed into the sourest wine. But before he had the chance to rush forward, to drop down onto the dock and grab the wicked devil by the neck, Montparnasse had vanished into the shadows.  
                His hand trembling, Grantaire raked his fingers through his hair; the roots of the dark curls were dampened with cold sweat. He swayed on the spot – squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to steady himself, but fear had him gripped tightly in its horrid clutch and he was struggling to so much as breathe. He had to relax. Perhaps the words were innocuous, and simply coincidental – besides, Parnasse had said a _king_ , not a prince. Grantaire was being foolish by making himself frightened so. Was he not? He had to be, for Montparnasse had surely meant nothing by his words. There was no chance he could have recognised Enjolras for whom he truly was – the prince had not initially been identified by any of the _Abaissé_ men, and they were pirates far more seasoned than those of the _Patron-Minette._ But the rival ship favoured docking near the capitol most often, so as to frequently stir up chaos near to the castle. If they had spent so much time so close to it, Grantaire feared that perhaps Montparnasse could have seen… no, it could not be; he was thinking rashly and unwisely.  
                Releasing a sound of despair, the captain turned from the bow in sudden paranoia and tore back across deck to his cabin: the door was ajar, and his breath was held as he reached it. But as he peeked in, hovering just beyond the threshold, there was only Joly to be found inside, fiddling with a thermometer as Enjolras lay sleeping soundly. Reassured by this sight of nurturing protection, the captain nodded to nobody and withdrew away slowly.  
                Enjolras was perfectly safe, and would remain that way. Of this he was certain, for it was his duty to make it so. He would do anything, would surrender anything, to ensure the safety of his prince. This Grantaire vowed silently as he stood upon the deck, his troubled eyes moving frenziedly out to the horizon.


	8. viii - la lumière finale

The captain maintained his watch for some hours, his eyes following the sun carefully as it climbed upwards, dazzling him at its peak, then started to lower itself little by little, until the wind felt cooler and the flaring orange of its demise had begun to fade. In the time that he stood, his crew returned in dribs and drabs, and Grantaire greeted each aboard with a brief but cordial exchange: he waved, slapped their backs as they slapped his, and listened to their grievances and qualms about the previous night. Then he smiled, opened his palms reassuringly, let them know that everything was well; and near the end of his consolation he would toss in a joke and the entire party would laugh at it before they headed below deck. Everything was well and good on the surface, the mood he presented to his men as bright as it had been when he’d awoke that morning with Enjolras in his arms, that same morning which felt like weeks ago.  
                But beneath this cheer, pushed back behind the merry exterior, the obstinate unease rooted in him by Montparnasse pressed at his mind like a shadow. It made him feel heavy, starting in his mind a low throb; it clouded the clear skies and chilled the waters which no longer lapped at the ship gently, but instead in his head now slapped it with such tumultuous force that they rocked the vessel and near knocked him off his feet.  
                That was how vastly the concern gripped the captain, yet he did not let on such for an instant in front of his men. They came home from a night already plagued with tension, and violence, and Grantaire wanted to lend them at least some hours of peace before he had to announce the stormy events between himself and Montparnasse, spoiling that peace. Standing on the deck now he rubbed his eyes and sighed, weighted down by the day. How he craved the small hours to return to him, for the light to weaken and for him to be lying beside the prince again – yet wait – suddenly, he realised that Joly had departed the captain’s cabin not too long ago, following another of his checks of the patient. It would be at least a further hour still until his next one, and Grantaire’s feet were beginning to ache from standing so firmly planted for so long.  
                So they moved, guiding him again towards the door left ajar, and his fingers curled cautiously around the frame as he stole a glimpse inside: lit by the staggering amber and scarlet hues of the closing sunset, the sight of Enjolras made his spirit soar instantly. He opened the door wider, stepping in tentatively, gaze fixed upon the stilled angel: lying on the bed, his chest was rising and falling gently; his head was turned away, only the profile visible to the captain, but his eyes appeared only half closed. He was awake. As Grantaire softly shut the door behind him, upon hearing it Enjolras tilted his head slowly and shifted his gaze to see him. The captain could have sworn that in that instant, he saw the blue ignite – immediately, a toothy smile curved up across the prince’s face, and he moved in the bed so as to sit up and face him.  
                “I thought that you had forgotten about me,” he teased.

At this, Grantaire swept across the room with eyes that looked as though they were blind but two moments before, his gait that of a prisoner unexpectedly freed – upon reaching Enjolras, he dropped down to kneel at his side, seizing his hands to hold in his own and pressing his lips to them.  
                “I could never forget,” he vowed, eyes closed. From above him he heard a musical laugh ring gently from the prince’s lips, and he moved his head up to look at him again, unable to go a minute without longing to gaze upon such a face. Although his actions were melodramatic, they were truthfully so: he was not joking, nor exaggerating, nor pretending. The theatrical gesture he had bestowed upon the prince was not birthed from mockery, or parody. It was truth; for each time he looked at Enjolras, his soul was brought to its knees, and his lips kissed the ground in the hopes that the ground would kiss him back and lift him up, making him sail even higher than he had been when their eyes had met. So it was a dramatic gesture, yes, but it was a real one. And that being a fact in itself, that he was not dreaming, was a marvel worthy of a thousand bends to the knee, a thousand kisses of the hand.  
                For Grantaire was reborn in those moments.

                Squeezing Enjolras’ hands – checking yet again that they were definitely in his grasp, that it was definitely no illusion, no conjurer’s trick, no mind’s projected dream – he lowered them gradually, and dropped his head against the edge of the mattress upon which the prince lay back down. Nestled beside the flesh of Enjolras’ waist, in the soft stretch between where rib ended and hip began, he closed his eyes and exhaled. He could have the world pause right then, he could lose all mobility and never speak again, he could have the ship steer into a whirling void of blank finality and cease to exist and he would still be happy, so long as he was flung into the black beyond like this; at Enjolras’ side. If they stayed that way for eternity, if they did nothing else but lie there, he would be fine, for they would be together.  
                Such were the thoughts spiralling inside Grantaire’s mind as one of Enjolras’ hands moved to knot its fingertips delicately within his dark hair, twirling and curling the tendrils absentmindedly. The captain’s thoughts then reflected upon that very morning, when he had been doing the same to the prince, and noticed it as another instance of how beautifully their roles had reversed. Thinking so, he shifted his head closer to Enjolras’ touch, embracing it even more.  
                “I feel well again now,” Enjolras eventually broke the hush which had eased over them, his tone quietly pleased. “Enough to venture out this evening, I think.”  
                Grantaire chuckled, his head still lying against the prince’s side. “I doubt Joly would agree to that.”  
                “Alas no, he allowed it – I asked him when he came in just earlier. I may only go below deck, mind; I cannot yet disembark, apparently.”  
                At that the captain was surprised, but pleased. He hadn’t expected Joly to allow Enjolras to so much as sit upright until each individual bruise had faded completely. He was glad, though, for it meant he could spend yet further time with Enjolras. It was a blissful revelation, an excellent development, and Grantaire murmured so.

But then his mood soured, as he remembered what he had been planning to do that evening: he had elected to inform the crew of Montparnasse’s visit, to share his concerns about the crook’s knowledge of their plans – as well as his knowledge of the most recent addition to their company; the same man whom was stroking Grantaire’s forehead at that second.  
                He sat upright suddenly, leaving Enjolras’ hand hanging in the air – the prince started to protest, to ask what was wrong, but the captain cut him off. He had to explain; if he didn’t tell Enjolras before the others, it would be wrong. He would have to sacrifice the moment’s bliss for the prince’s own sake.  
                “Enjolras… _mon amour_ , _mon soleil, ma lune, mes étoiles_ …”  
                He hesitated, sighing. In his pause, Enjolras moved forwards, resting a hand on Grantaire’s arm in concern and kissing his shoulder before dropping his head against it.  
                “Tell me what’s wrong.”  
                The captain rubbed his eyes, his heart heavy. “I’m worried.” He stopped again for a moment, but Enjolras let him continue in his own time. “I was visited by Montparnasse today,” he began to explain, settling his eyes upon the floor; he could not bear to witness the flicker of sadness dart across Enjolras’ face. “He apologised for – what he did, what he caused… then he invited us to the _Patron-Minette_ , the whole of our crew. I declined, of course, yet he seemed to expect that. He seemed pleased to hear it, in fact – for then he told me that he had been irresponsible in asking, because he knew we were setting out for Cariotte Island the following morning. That he knew that, that he had details of where we were headed, it worried me enough, but then—” Grantaire almost could not bring himself to speak it. His voice was quiet, and it trembled, as he continued. “—I think he mentioned you.”  
                His shoulder immediately felt colder as Enjolras’ chin left it. The prince jerked backwards, his expression distraught and his eyebrows knotting together. Eyes hardened, he then spoke with such intensity that it chilled the captain to the bone: “Tell me what he said, Grantaire. Word for word, you need to tell me.”  
                The captain did not have time to revel in that beauty of the prince speaking his name this time; the urgency in his tone prompted him to answer quickly.  
                “He told me, of Cariotte, _‘It is fit for a king’_.”  
                Enjolras flinched.  A fleeting pain skipped across his features and he glanced away. He let it linger with him a moment, then turned his eyes back to Grantaire, and it was gone. The sorrow hadn’t disappeared from his voice yet, however, as his words came out hoarse, a cracked whisper. “Do you—” he coughed, returning the firm depth to his tone, “—Do you think he meant me?”  
                Grantaire paused.  
                “I don’t want to think,” was all he could utter.  
                At this, Enjolras threw back the bed sheet suddenly, throwing himself from the bed and starting to pace about the room. Grantaire tried to stop him – his bones were still tender, their bruises not fully mended – but the man’s mind was already engaged; in Enjolras’ angered silence, Grantaire felt hopeless, as though he could not be reached. He turned his head back to look at the pillow which still bore the prince’s shape like a ghosting memory, and wished he’d never broached the subject. All of the tenderness they had been cultivating so strongly had evaporated, replaced with a gnawing unease which had his head pounding. Rubbing his neck, Grantaire leant over to the bedside table and yanked open a drawer; an unopened bottle of port inside rolled to his hand like an old friend. Lifting it out and uncorking it with his teeth, he sat back in the bed and tipped back his head, letting the sweet richness stream over his tongue, flow down his throat and warm his insides at once. He took several gulps, holding his breath until his lungs threatened to burst and he had to lower the bottle. Resting its lip against his own, he turned his eyes to the prince – his face was granite, beleaguered as he strode to and fro inside the cabin, running his hands through his hair and scratching at an imperceptible itch on his forearm.  
                Grantaire took another deep swig of the port.

                Across the room, Enjolras suddenly stopped pacing. His back was to the captain, yet as he moved his head to glimpse over his shoulder as he spoke, Grantaire saw how swiftly his face had lost its intensity. The prince’s wide eyes were those of a lost child’s as his words came out soft and scared. “Grantaire,” he whispered, unable to look at the man as he continued, “might I be killed?”  
                The captain jerked the bottle from his lips and threw it down. Standing up he strode towards Enjolras, took his upper arms with a renewed fever, and looked him straight in the eyes as he replied, “Don’t you even dare ask, _mon amour_ – he cannot harm you, his men cannot harm you, now that I am here. If they were to fire through that door this very moment, I would shoot them all before their step even touched inside.”  
                Enjolras’ head dipped, his eyes lowering, and Grantaire lightly touched a finger beneath his chin. Then the captain tilted his own head to the side, leaned in gently, and planted a kiss on the prince’s lips, short yet tender. Pulling back gently, he dropped his forehead to rest against Enjolras’ own. “That is my vow to you, and I will honour it – I would die a thousand times, _mon salut_ , before you could be harmed.”  
                With a sniff, the prince smiled bitterly.  
                “Don’t you even dare,” he echoed, and Grantaire released a soft laugh.

They stood together in the cabin for some time, each merely breathing; but they breathed together.

*

                The boisterous room fell to a hush as they entered: Grantaire first, his captain’s tricorne at its usual jaunty angle atop his head; Enjolras following, a shaky smile at his lips while he descended the staircase slowly. As he stepped down into the main cabin, one of the men – Bahorel, it sounded like – let out a whoop, which quickly roused other jubilant shouts and even a hearty round of applause. Then the men all rushed forwards, congregating around the prince, hissing sympathetically at his bruised face and cut eyebrow, cursing the name of each man of the _Patron-Minette_ , relaying to him exactly what they intended to do to the bandits. Bossuet, upon reaching him, slapped his back in the usual genial greeting of their company, welcoming his return – but as Enjolras tried to hide his wince at the hit he realised his mistake and groaned, apologising profusely and cursing at the ceiling: “O, gods, why must it always be me?”  
                The party laughed at this, poking jest at his misfortune, and Enjolras chuckled reassuringly, telling him not to worry. Bossuet just threw a hand to his forehead and turned away, shaking his head in disbelief.  
                Combeferre bounded over to Enjolras too, then, sprightlier than had ever seen him, grinning wildly as he put his hand lightly behind the prince’s neck. “Well done,” he said proudly, nodding his head as he was thanked. Eventually, Enjolras moved further into the room as the crowd parted for him and began to file back to their seats – there was a free stool beside Courfeyrac, who began to drum the chair noisily as Enjolras walked over to it. He was yelling something, yet the apple he had in his mouth made the words themselves unintelligible. The enthusiasm endeared the prince, though, and he shook the first mate’s arm cheerfully as he took his place.  
                Grantaire watched all of this quietly from the front of the room, smiling contemplatively as his eyes followed Enjolras, seeing him respond exuberantly and happily to the rowdiness which had unfolded around him, even though the captain knew he could not be feeling so cheery on the inside. The news had set in him a deep concern, a solemnity, and if the captain studied his features properly he could see the slight nag in his forehead, the soft creases of a frown’s shadow still lurking at the corners of his lips. He looked away, accepted a tankard of ale from Jehan, and threw his head back for a long draught, his stomach curdling at the thought of having to destroy the lively, shared good spirit of the group. Yet as the captain it was his duty, however unpleasant a duty it was. So, wiping his mouth with his hand, he stamped a foot twice and hollered over the racket for his men to shut themselves up – they fell quiet eventually, each turning to listen, and Grantaire stepped towards the centre of the room to address them all.  
                “I don’t want to spoil the festivities,” he started, when he was interrupted by a shout from Bahorel:  
                “Then don’t!” the pirate called out, grinning, but although the men laughed, Courfeyrac launched the apple he had been munching at Bahorel and yelled for his respect. Bahorel dodged the fruit missile only narrowly, his face flushing with anger, but the captain leapt back in before things could escalate.  
                “I’m afraid I must, because an issue arose today which affects us all. I need each of your ears for it, too, because I require your counsel afterwards. So sit up, look sharp, and listen.” He turned his eyes over the group, making sure they were paying attention – “It is about Montparnasse,” he added, and at once each man was hanging on his every word. “He came to the dock earlier, to see me, and what he said – well, it was worrying. He invited us to the _Patron-Minette_ this evening—” A number of cusses sprang up at this, and a fair bit of spit sent upon the floor “—When I declined, he became suddenly aware, and said, ‘Of course!’ – that he should have thought better, because we were sailing tomorrow for Cariotte.”  
                Here, he paused, and his expression was fierce as he regarded each of the crew in turn. “Did any among you speak to him? If you did, it is all right, you are not facing any punishment. I just need to know, because if nobody did… I am concerned for our safety.”  
                But every man shook his head and exchanged glances about the room, as if each had asked Grantaire’s question themselves and was seeking out the answer. Yet none came; none of the party had talked to Parnasse directly. That could only mean that it was eavesdropping which had led him to discover their plans, and that sent Grantaire to even further unrest. He scanned the group for another moment, leaving longer time for a voice to speak up, but it became clear that nobody was about to interject any time soon. So he nodded, licking his lips agitatedly, and continued.  
                “Right. If – for whatever reason – you haven’t spoken up now, but could have, you know where I can be found after this evening. If you come to me then, I assure you, there will be no reprimand and your brothers will not know. Is that clear enough?” The group muttered their acknowledgement. “Good. But I am not done – one further issue prevails, for Parnasse did not end his devilry there: after he had shown that he knew of our next planned disembark, he made tracks – but not without one last comment. He said…” The captain drew in a breath, his free hand balling into a fist at his side, and he glanced at Enjolras. The prince’s face was cast down. “He said that Cariotte was an isle ‘fit for a king’.”

One by one, each pair of eyes in the room slid over to Enjolras. He felt them prickling into his skin, but couldn’t bear to meet them. Then Combeferre looked back to Grantaire, and asked gravely, “Do you believe that he was referring to Enjolras?”  
                Instantly, the attention was snapped back to the captain, who closed his eyes for an extended blink, and nodded. Opening them again, he dragged the fingertips of one hand across his cheek as he added verbally, “Yes. I do.”  
                 The company as one appeared to pause. Each man’s gaze dropped, and each expression flattened to one of an occupied reflection. A silence settled, and it hauled on for some time, no man daring to break it out of both respect and uncertainty – until Enjolras himself leapt to his feet, and crossed to stand in front of Grantaire, right in the centre of the room.  
                Raising his chin nobly, he spoke with gravity and steadfastness.  
                “I have endangered your ship to these rogues, I understand, and for that I can only apologise. I did not want this to happen, and I have failed you all. But I can solve this easily, and immediately.” He paused, his muscles stiffening, and stared at a blank spot of wall as he delivered his resolution: “I will leave. I will go ashore, and I will have to see what hap—”  
                He tried to finish, but the uproar which had leapt into being the instant he had uttered the word ‘leave’ was deafening. The crew were on their feet, shaking their heads, gesticulating wildly with their arms, calling out protestations; the ship was in chaos, each man suddenly fierce – each man except for their captain, who was standing entirely still, unable to move, unable to breathe. _Leave_ him – his _amour_ was going to _leave_ him: the word spun round in his mind over and over, dizzying him.  
                Meanwhile, Enjolras fought to quieten his friends, adding, “I was wrong to try to belong here. It is not my place, I could only bring trouble. I have to rectify my misdeeds, I have to leave.”  
                But this time, before the pandemonium could surge again, a softer voice protested first:  
                “You’re wrong,” said Jehan sweetly, and the crew turned to look at them silently. It was an odd power that they had, that the crew never spoke over them, yet it proved useful in this instance – they were not interrupted as they walked calmly across the deck, stopping at a seemingly random point. “You’re part of this ship, Enjolras, so you do belong. Your name, it is right there in writing,” they finished, pointing at the plank before them. Like most of the others in the ship, it had been scribbled over, only this time the handwriting was not the looping swirl of Jehan; it was slimmer, taller, more practised in form – it was Enjolras’ lettering, Grantaire realised. He remembered what Joly had told him: _‘…young Jehan even allowed Enjolras to write upon those scribbled planks of his’,_ and for the umpteenth time in his time as captain of the _Abaissé,_ he thanked the fates for Jehan Prouvaire. The poet was not the loudest, nor the strongest, but they were blessed. They watched, they saw, and they remembered. And sometimes, that sharpness was what was required; not a raised voice, or curled fist.  
                Around the room, a slow smile spread onto the face of each man as they understood what it was Jehan was explaining. Enjolras, however, wrenched his head down, glancing away, his face still wrought with heavy conflict. But then Grantaire’s hand was there, resting near the small of his back, and he pulled his eyes back up to meet the captain’s: the flecks of light in their irises were once again dancing brightly.  
                “Don’t leave, Enjolras,” he said, and the surrounding pirates reaffirmed the words. Grantaire wasn’t finished, though: it was with a knowing smile and a subtle, tender press of the hand he had on Enjolras’ back that he added quietly, “Don’t you even dare.”

Looking around the room at this, Enjolras realised that he no longer saw pirates around him, or even crewmates. Neither did he see the damp walls of a cabin, the creaky floor of a lower deck:  
                He saw family, and he saw home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully you liked this chapter - i know it was hardly the freshest, but it was a necessary plot point so it couldn't be left out. but don't worry, things escalate ( _mon dieu,_ do things escalate) very soon, because although i'm not 100% certain i have a feeling the next chapter may be the last (if not, it's definitely the penultimate). so prepare yourselves if it is and i'll see you on the other side!!!
> 
> i probably don't need to say it any more, but as always, every kudos and every comment is appreciated greatly.  
> thank you so much for sticking with me! ♥


	9. ix - permets-tu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **[major character death in this chapter]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sure you can guess the reason why i put off writing this chapter for a little while: it's the last proper instalment in this story, which means the end, and i did _not_ want to let my pirates go. that, as well as the odd number of nine chapters proving a personal irritation to me, prompted me to write a brief epilogue of sorts which i feel wraps up the message and heart of the story quite nicely - i'm posting that immediately after this chapter.
> 
> i hope both are worth the wait, if you've been following the story as it's been posted; and if you're reading this with it all having been completed already, then i hope you've enjoyed the read too. i don't want to say it at the end because i feel it might throw off the gravitas of the ending, but if you have enjoyed reading this then please do leave a comment or kudos for me. thank-you again to everybody who already has, and to everybody who's read what i hope was a really enjoyable story. now that it's complete, if you think it's worthy even of sharing or recommending elsewhere, i'd be absolutely thrilled, too!  
>    
> thanks, all - hope you enjoy this.

No rest was had that night: immediately after their persuasion of Enjolras to stay, the crew busied themselves with preparations for as swift a departure as they could manage. Barrels emptied of their goods were unloaded onto the stones of the dock, and Feuilly was tasked with Bahorel to seek purchase of new ones to carry aboard. Meanwhile, Jehan travelled out with Courfeyrac to gather food, and – for there was supposedly a patch of woodland tucked away in Aguemort’s brick and mortar jungle – to pick fresh flowers for the ship’s decoration. Before leaving, the poet had described to the captain specifically the type they would be scouting for: chrysanthemums, they said, which would bring to the ship good fortune, and easy living. Grantaire had wished them luck, himself turning to pull a map of the land and its surrounding waters from the wall. He had Joly drag a table from the rear of the room to the centre and spread out the large sheet of yellowed parchment atop it. A splendid map, it was aged as much as it was revered – its corners were curling and its surface coated with a light sprinkle of dust.  
                Blowing the flecks from the map, Grantaire heard Combeferre and Enjolras move over to join him as he began to pore over the continent drawn out before him. Their original plan had been to travel north to the scatter of islands which clustered to make Cariotte, yet that course, he felt, had been damned – now that the _Patron-Minette_ had wind of their aim, they had the opportunity to thwart it or follow it, and this set Grantaire on edge. He looked to the west instead, but all that was there was open water for some leagues, until the corner of the land tapered out into what looked like a hooked nose. Inside the cavity that formed there lay some other islands, but they were a risk – unlike the eastern shores, the west was very much aligned to the king. He had fortresses stationed all along that coast to fend off attack from foreign lands, and it was an impenetrable area for pirates: they would avoid the west. Grantaire traced a finger eastwards – that was the only route left, yet no islands could be found there unless one was to sail all the way east and then head south, following the coast as it curved.  But that journey would take at least a full ten days, and he was wary of travelling so close to the sea.  
                The captain chose to turn to his crew for counsel. Explaining his thoughts, he tapped the map before drawing back, straightening up and inviting their response. “What do you suppose?”  
                Combeferre was first to pitch in. He leant over the map, drumming his fingertips across it as he pointed to the various areas. “You’re correct in avoiding the west, but I fear that even the east has become concentrated with royalists in recent times. The islands there are no safer than in the western cavity, to my knowledge. We would need security…”  
                While the guide spoke, Grantaire felt Enjolras’ shoulder brush against his own as he budged closer. He remained nonchalant, still listening to Combeferre’s assessments, but as the prince quietly took his hand beneath the table and brushed his thumb over it, he could not hold back a smile. The captain glanced briefly at Enjolras, but the prince was better at maintaining impassivity than he, his eyes still attentive to Combeferre – there was, however a tiny, yet revealing, crease flecked up at one corner of his mouth, and that gave the mask away. Grantaire was looking at it when he felt his hand squeezed suddenly – tearing his gaze away, he realised Combeferre had finished and was casting a glance about the table, waiting for a response.  
                Joly gave one first. “That sounds best, carrying on course, I think – I mean, ‘Parnasse won’t be expecting it, will he? For us to stick to our original destination?”  
                Here, the men looked to their captain, waiting on his authority. Grantaire nodded slowly, yet he was still cautious. “I suppose,” he nodded, but he lifted a hand to scratch the back of his neck, torn, “though neither option feels right. We can’t linger here, though, we have to make haste – and if we truly feel sticking to this course is best, then it’s what will be done. Is everybody agreed?”  
                The murmur in return was one of assent, and the captain accepted it. A prickle in his chest was telling him that they had committed a grave mistake, yet he pushed it aside as he gathered the map back up. It had been decided: they were going to resume sailing to Cariotte, though they would alter their path to loop the opposite way towards the island, for added security. As the captain pinned the map back up against the cabin wall, he glanced out to the ceiling: with the trapdoor to the upper deck open, a square of the sky could be seen. It was still inky-blue, foggy. The lack of stars could be worrying for the sake of their navigation, but would provide the _Abaissé_ optimum coverage as she crept away in the night.  
                His view of the sky was obscured suddenly as two figures loomed over the opening – Bahorel and Feuilly, returning from their journey into the town. Each had their arms wrapped around a large barrel, pressing them to their strapping chests as they ran down the steps and threw the barrels onto the lower deck. “More to come!” Feuilly shouted, clambering back up and out of sight before Grantaire could so much as blink. He looked at Enjolras, also stunned by the speed of the two men, and they laughed.  
                “Here, help me store these,” the captain said, and the prince joined him in rolling the heavy barrels of ale and meats into the smaller storage cabin. Grantaire, having done the task several times before, had already set his barrel upright and was leaning an elbow on its lid by the time Enjolras made it, a sheen of sweat on his brow.  
                “What are in those things,” he laughed incredulously, straightening up and wiping his face against a sleeve, “if not dead bodies? That’s what it feels like they hold.”  
                The captain grinned at him and said nothing, yet as Enjolras turned back to rejoin the main cabin, he moved forwards suddenly and reached out to take his arm, whispering urgently, “Wait.”  
                At this the prince paused, shifting back to face Grantaire with a startled expression upon his face. The captain was not grinning anymore; his smile dropping to a look of anxious fear. Keeping his eyes upon Enjolras, he drank in the face he loved at what could have been his last opportunity to do so. But the prince seemed to read his mind, to understand his worry, for he brushed his fingers along Grantaire’s jawline, tilted his head up gently, and spoke earnestly. “I am safe, captain, and so are you. We will journey to Cariotte with ease – I feel it in my heart,” he said. Grantaire’s eyes were closed as he nodded, his faith once again renewed by Enjolras’ touch.  
                With that, they broke apart and swept back into the main cabin, and their preparations resumed.

It was a full hour before all members of the crew were aboard and ready to depart. An inventory of their cargo had been drawn up and checked against the last one: everything was in order, and thanks to Jehan’s flower-gathering the _Abaissé_ smelt sweeter, too. They had been unable to find the chrysanthemums they had so raved about, yet the alternative of white heather which they had retrieved seemed to please them just as much. All men were on deck and Grantaire was putting back on his tricorn when the ropes mooring them were cut, and the ship lurched away from the dock.  
                At once, the crew scattered about the deck to fasten knots, secure equipment, and hoist the anchor – steadily at first, yet surely, she began to sail. Aguemort was distanced further and further from their vessel until it was a mere freckle on the horizon: only then did Grantaire’s muscles relax. Turning away from the forecastle deck of the bow, he signalled up to Courfeyrac. Standing at the helm, right at the rear of the ship, the first mate kept one hand on the wheel as he signalled back: all was in order, the exchange meant, and he took it as his instruction to begin steering the _Abaissé_ on her course _._ He nudged her to the right, a smile spreading across his face as the sea air whipped over his cheeks. For the boy robbed of his parents’ lives, the breeze of the ocean was the only mother’s touch that he knew; he was glad to feel it again as the ship picked up speed.  
                His parents had been wine merchants, selling the sweetest drink for miles, and at no stunning expense. They had proven popular with all classes of people, from the impoverished after their cheapest tap-ale, to the royalty who longed for something notably finer – indeed, they had even sold their wares to the king himself on several occasions. He had a taste for burgundy, it seemed, and often in his court proclaimed theirs to be the richest ever brought to his lips. This led another man, the leading general of his army, to enter their shop: a gaunt fellow, his wobbly neck and papered skin contributed to his look of being at death’s doorstep, yet he could not be deterred from his brandies even at his staggering age. It was a brandy which he had purchased from Courfeyrac’s parents – it was a brandy which he had sipped on the night of his death.  
                Any field worker or street urchin could have answered that his demise was caused by his age, by his ill health, but the general’s cruel son would not allow the reasoning. Instead he pointed his finger at the wine-sellers, and from his tongue hissed the word ‘poison’: One small word, and the couple were condemned.  
                Courfeyrac had been ripped from his mother’s embrace when she and his father had been dragged up a flight of stairs, attached to a pair of nooses, and hanged. The king’s men had used their own liquor to douse the floors of their shop with before they had torched it, burning their overlying house to ash with it. It was then that the sixteen-year-old son, whose neck had been spared only so that the grief might kill him more harshly and more slowly, had taken refuge in the house of his best friend. He had lived with Grantaire for a year before they had first disembarked to sea, and Courfeyrac had finally felt free from the agony of seeing mothers and sons on the street, and family members being embraced at the thresholds of houses as they were welcomed inside. The sea took him whole regardless of his broken spirit, and raised it back up so that he was even more the riotous, raucous young man that he had once been. It was the sea whose fingers stroked his hair each morning, ruffling it in its breeze; it was the sea which he proclaimed as his home.  
                As the first crack of sun began to lighten the horizon, Courfeyrac looked to it and laughed, shrieking out a rooster’s cry.

They sailed straight for some hours, the waters on their route so calm and the tide so even that many of the crew retired below deck for a while, to eat. Wine and laughter was flowing in this time, with all gathered below – at one point, Joly emerged to see Grantaire on deck, offering for them to switch so that he might take a break himself. The captain was hesitant, but the medic insisted.  
                Below deck, the festivities were in full swing – all appeared to have forgotten the terrors of the earlier hours, their qualms soothed, their faith restored. Jehan even had their flute in hand, and was playing a sprightly melody as Courfeyrac barked out a limerick and skipped his feet from side to side. Most of the other men had joined in, linking arms and hopping in circles. Their enthusiasm was so bountiful that Grantaire’s entry went by unmarked, but the captain did not mind – he descended the steps into the cabin quietly with a wide smile upon his face, watching the crew take advantage of their merriness. It did not occur to him that they were not as alone on the waters as they believed; did not occur to him that this dance was to be their last.  
                Stepping across the room, he picked up a bottle of absinthe and began to drink, eyes turning about the cabin. The bottle had not yet left his lips when his back was jabbed suddenly – jolting in shock, he wheeled around to find Enjolras behind him, head thrown back in laughter. Grantaire cursed at him, yet even his harsh words fell to chortles as the pair shared in his humiliation. Lowering the bottle, he set it back upon a table and, still beaming, held out his open palms between them. “Come on. I’m sure they taught you to dance at the capitol.”  
                Enjolras was smiling, yet he seemed hesitant, and laughed, “This isn’t dancing!”  
                The couple turned to look about the room at the stomping, leaping men, and chuckled again, a hiccup rising in Grantaire’s laugh. He moved his hands to thump at his chest at the noise, knocking the hiccups out of him, and this time Enjolras outstretched his upwards-facing palm in the space between them. “No,” he said, “this is how you do it.” He paused, then lowered his back into a slight bow, extending his arm further; Grantaire put his hand into Enjolras’, and the prince kissed it. “My captain,” he murmured, as solemnly as was manageable with a beaming grin splitting his face in two, “do I have the honour of this dance?”  
                Grantaire just laughed, adoring eyes fixed upon the prince as he straightened up and moved their joined hands out to one side, resting his other on Grantaire’s waist. The captain propped his own free hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, and the prince began to lead him in a complicated three-step; this fell apart within mere moments, however, and, laughing, they abandoned the stiff formal posture – instead, Grantaire moved their joined hands to stretch between them, and shifted Enjolras’ hand from his waist to hold it; this intertwined pair was moved inwards also, and Grantaire began to count down from three.  
                Upon reaching one, he threw himself backwards and started to spin them around, until they were careering so quickly in circles that his stomach began to slosh from the wine inside it. This was more like the chaotic dance that the other pirates were doing around them, the spinning interrupted with periods of thrashing about and jumping in the air. Beside them, Feuilly was doing some sort of footwork jig – he tried to teach the captain and prince the motions, yet all it did was twist their ankles and dent the planks beneath their feet. Soon, Grantaire’s hiccups returned, too, and he took a moment out to breathe.  
                That was when the explosion of the cannon cracked through the air like a whip.

Stunned to silence, a moment passed below deck when all time seemed to stand still – Jehan’s flute screeched its last note and was cut off abruptly; the singing stopped, the dancing stumbled. Then, splitting the silence came Joly’s cry from above: “AMBUSH!”  
                Grantaire threw himself towards the staircase, feet thundering up until he burst onto the upper deck – emerging from the mist, right in front of them, the first sight to meet his eyes was the emerald sail being flown by an armoured ship of the king’s fleet. His heart stopped beating, he swayed on the spot, he thrust out an arm to try to stop the rest of the crew from joining him above deck, but it merely flailed as the men of the _Abaissé_ gathered around him. “Joly—” he was trying to yell, but his voice was damned, “Joly, come...”  
                Next to him, Courfeyrac cupped his hands around his mouth and finished for the captain: “Joly!” he bellowed, “Come down!”  
                Up in the crow’s nest, the medic heard him and began his scurried descent along the rigging.  
                Grantaire was still reeling, his senses robbed of their ability to act, to speak, to breathe – then the second ship was spotted, drifting towards them from the other side. They were cornered; Montparnasse had trotted them into a trap by the collar of their necks.  
                The men were revolving slowly on the spot, taking in the second ship; and then they saw the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, appear from the fog.  
                Each man stood at a loss until Bahorel charged over to the door of the captain’s cabin, hollering about the weapons kept inside. “We need to arm ourselves, we need – captain! Captain! Do you have the key – are you listening? We need to arm ourselves! Captain?”  
                But all Grantaire did in response was shake his head. “What would be the point?” he murmured quietly. “Look around, Bahorel… we are standing in our graves.”  
                At this, Courfeyrac looked as though he were on the brink of smacking him – yelling over his shoulder, he hollered to Bahorel, “You don’t need a key!”, before running across the deck himself, smashing a foot into the door to force it open, and helping the man fetch arms from within. Feuilly was moving too, yet the rest of the crew appeared as subdued as their captain.  
                Grantaire had not even moved his eyes from the emerald sail yet: his vacant stare remained there because he knew if he let it shift, it would go to Enjolras; and if he laid so much as a glance upon the prince now, his heart would splinter beyond repair. The prince had rushed out just as the other men had, only upon seeing the emerald his legs had not been able to stop him until his body slammed against the main mast – arm clinging to the wooden pole, his shoulders were hunched, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his chest juddering as he repressed the sobs on the verge of bursting from his chest; it was all his fault.  
                It was all his fault.

Steadily, one of the ships drew up beside them, and its crew – each dressed in royal guard uniform, with tall round hats atop their heads and bayonets held tightly to their chests – used a thrown-over gangplank to swarm aboard the _Abaissé._ Still, all Grantaire could manage to do was stand and watch. By now, Courfeyrac, Feuilly and Bahorel had made it back to the rest of the crew with weapons in their arms – spotting this; the guards pointed their rifles at them first.  
                “Drop your weapons!” one barked, his voice taut and clipped. “You are hereby proclaimed traitors to the king – drop your weapons immediately, or we shall open fire!”  
                At first, the three _Abaissé_ men remained stoic, unmoving. But as the guard hoisted his rifle up to his shoulder, preparing to take aim, Feuilly and Bossuet submitted, and let their cutlasses and guns fall to the deck floor. Courfeyrac, however, did not flinch. His hands remained curled tightly around the cutlass he held.  
                Finding his voice at last, Grantaire hissed at him: “Courfeyrac. Drop it.”  
                But the first mate’s wide eyes appeared vacant – his deadened stare stayed fixed on a guard standing behind the one who had barked the first command. This man was dressed in a finer uniform, its breast adorned with a line of glittering medals; he was the army general – the son who had taken over the role his father had held until his demise; the son who had ordered the death of Courfeyrac’s mother and father; the son who had burned down their shop personally.  
                This man stepped forward now, putting a hand on the shoulder of the first guard and murmuring something unintelligible. He regarded Courfeyrac with a twisted smile for a moment, then slid his eyes across the deck towards the mast where Enjolras was standing, his face one of utmost vulnerability, exceeding grief, blinding guilt.  
                The general spoke. “We are here for only one man of your crew,” he proclaimed, turning his eyes over the entire company—“the prince, Enjolras.” He paused. “I promise you all that if he comes with us at once, the rest of you shall remain unharmed.”  
                Suddenly, at this vow, the life returned to Enjolras – from the mast he stirred, rushing back towards the crew, sweeping across the deck in approach of the guards. “I am here,” he started. “And I will go with you immediately, if these men stay untouched.”  
                But the crew would not allow it – as he passed by Jehan, the poet grabbed his arm to wrangle him back, and the rest of the men jostled around him in protection, standing against the guards in bold defiance. The general merely laughed. He turned to look at Courfeyrac, stepping closer to him. Even with the proximity, the first mate did not so much as blink.  
                “Our man asked you before to lower your weapon,” the general said. “Do you not comply?”  
                With an exterior of stone, Courfeyrac answered him. “I do not comply,” he said, with gritted teeth. Stood behind him, Combeferre tried to grab for his arm – “Courfeyrac,” he hissed desperately – but the first mate shook him off forcefully, and resumed his answer to the general. “I will never comply with scum like you.”  
                The general sighed, and turned his back. He looked at the first guard, and gave a subtle incline of his head.  
                A pause—  
                The gunshot ripped through the air as the blood of Courfeyrac’s brains streaked out across the deck. He hit the planks with a thud, limbs splaying out at Combeferre’s feet.  
                Even in the arms of death, a smile ghosted across his lips as he moved his eyes to the sky, and felt the sea breeze on his cheeks for the last time.

Grantaire was awoken as suddenly as if he had been flung into a pit of fire – releasing a strangled cry, he moved to drop to his knees beside his best friend’s body, his hands scrabbling at the dead man’s shoulders, shaking him, rattling him. “Courf!” he shrieked, overcome by sobs, “look at me, Courfeyrac, you bastard! Look at me, stop the jest and look at me!”  
                But his eyes would not see the captain ever again; he was gone.  
                Bowing his head, Grantaire released a long, broken wail. He forgot where he was; the rest of the world having melted away around him when the bullet had torn through his best friend’s skull.  
                The king’s men standing but a yard away, however, had not lost sight of what was happening. Turning back around, a smirk still on his face, the general spoke again.  
                “The captain helps his men at last,” he taunted, but Grantaire was deaf to his words. This did not faze the general, though, as he delivered a second proposition. “It seems your crew is struggling to submit to our request – but their treason will be pardoned, and not one more man will have to die, if you accept this second chance, captain: surrender yourself in their place.”  
                Grantaire raised his head slowly, a tear hanging from the tip of his nose. Satisfied with the attention, the general explained further. “The prince will come with us and we will be on our way without a second shot if you accept your responsibility for the actions of this crew.”  
                “I accept the responsibility,” the captain hissed back instantly.  
                “All right. Then you must walk the plank.”  
                The general cast out his arm, motioning to the wooden plank of the _Abaissé_. “That is the punishment for your treason. Walk the plank, captain, and meet your death beneath it, and we will spare the rest of your crew.”  
                By now, Grantaire felt nothing but hollow; he welcomed the death sentence. Despite the fizzing protests of his crew, who tried to hold him back as he moved, he raised himself to his feet steadily and nodded, staring the general in the eye. The uniformed man merely flapped his hand almost impatiently, indicating for Grantaire to advance.  
                But before he’d taken a single step in the direction of the plank, Enjolras cried out.  
                “Let me!” he yelled, whipping his head to look from Grantaire to the general and his men. “Let me walk with him – we cannot die, if not together.”  
                The general appeared bewildered for a moment, his smug expression slipping for a split second – he deliberated the proposal briefly, turning over the notion in his head. The initial plan, he supposed, had been to murder the prince ashore – the king had exclaimed that it was fruitless bringing him back to the capitol for he did not even want to look at the traitor’s face before he died; that his son was already dead in his eyes. So it did not matter where the prince was slain, so long as the deed was done – thinking such, the general turned his back again, and ordered to one of his men: “Tie them both by the wrists. In fact – tie their wrists together.”

Meanwhile, frozen in his step, Grantaire looked at Enjolras with an open mouth as the prince crossed the deck towards him, stopping so close their foreheads touched. With a weight in his eyes heavier than the moon, the sun, and the earth themselves, the prince echoed the very words that the captain had murmured to him all those nights ago, right before their lips had met for the first time – his voice was cracked, but they were whispered clear.  
                “Do you permit it?”  
                Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’ hands tightly as the tears spilled over his cheeks, nodding, shaking as one of the guards ripped their grasp apart and yanked for their wrists, tying a rope around them tightly before thrusting the connected arms down. With the rope binding their skin close, the prince and captain intertwined their fingers. Then, cold metal was prodded into their backs, two guards goading them towards the wide plank.

As one they stepped onto the wood, feeling it wobble beneath their weight. It was four paces, Grantaire estimated, to the edge. Four steps, a fall, and it would be done.  
                They took the first step, and he whispered, “ _Mes étoiles…_ ”  
                Beside him, Enjolras drew in a breath.  
                They took the second step. “ _Ma lune…”_  
                The prince squeezed his hand, clinging onto it so tightly that it felt as though his bones would break.  
                They took the third step. “ _Mon amour...”_

At the fourth step, they paused, and turned to face each other. The captain looked upon his prince’s face, documenting each pore, each line, for the last time. “Grantaire,” the blond murmured hoarsely, his eyes shimmering with tears and his lip trembling uncontrollably.  
                With his free hand, Grantaire touched his cheek and leaned in, closing his eyes and pressing his lips to the prince’s. They kissed desperately, urgently; they kissed for an eternity twice over; they kissed as the sun burned up and the earth caved in on itself.  
                Forehead resting against the prince’s, Grantaire drew in his last breath: _"M_ _on Enjolras."_

They leaned to one side; the world lurched around them; the wood creaked beneath them; and together, they fell.

 

***


	10. x - épilogue

_“Lying in the deepest crevice of the sea,” the aged man began, pulling the child up onto his lap, “there is an old, old ship.”_  
 _The boy on his knee grinned: he hadn’t heard his grandfather tell one of his tales for a long time. Pressing his pink cheeks into the papery skin of the elderly man’s neck, he spoke with quiet excitement, “Go on grandfather, tell it, please. I haven’t heard this one before.”_  
 _“Nobody has,” the man continued, a sigh laden in his voice. “But it is about time.”_  
 _He paused, his eyes taking on their familiar look of mystique as his mind drifted out to sea. “There was once a king who ruled this land. He was a terrible man, a treacherous leader. His people lived in fright and in squalor, but nobody could do a thing to stop this tyrant. They feared his power – he had an army of hundreds of thousands of brutal warriors, he had mighty fortresses which towered fifty feet high, he had weapons that they had not even heard of before. Nobody dared act against him._  
 _“Except there was one group – young men, poor as they come, nothing special – but they were bold as the sun. These men called themselves pirates, and they sailed on the seas around the country, spreading their word against the king. And they were very brave, very brave indeed. Because if they were caught ashore, they would be shot where they stood.”_  
 _“Why? That’s horrid.”_  
 _“Well, the king was a horrid man. He was incapable of empathy, of love. Many said that he murdered his own queen when she fell ill with the flu: she was on course to recover, but the king would not tolerate weakness. Indeed, it was believed that he lacked a heart at all._  
 _“But his only son… he was not of his father’s blood; it was impossible for that to be. His son was brave, and honourable, and kind. He did not agree with his father’s enslavement of his own people… so he fled one night, slipping away in the dark. He travelled to a tavern, cloaked to protect his identity, with his sole friend. This man he considered his guide; his connection to the living world beyond the capitol walls. This man was the one who led him to the tavern that night, where they were not alone – for a particular band of pirates was also drinking there. The prince and his footman spoke to these pirates’ captain. Though they knew they would become instant traitors, punishable by death – though they knew there was no return from the life they were asking for – they pleaded to join his crew._  
 _“Now, this captain, he had long been weary. He was no older than the bold young prince, but this man had lost his spark. For too long, the revolution he had joined had been slumbering. It was draining his hope. But he permitted the two royal associates on board despite this, and the next day, they set sail._  
 _“The prince and the guide found themselves immersed in an entirely new world: they initially were wary of the pirates they were to be crewmates with, for these men were strong, were intrepid – but time came to tell that these newcomers were equally so. And their effect on the ship was a positive one. Soon enough the captain, in the company of the prince, talked with renewed vigour; walked with the light back in his eyes and the spring in his step. It was obvious to any who laid eyes upon him, this renewed baptism, but it was not acknowledged. His crew were just happy, you see; happy that their captain had returned. The company sailed together, thus, for some weeks, sharing happy days and drunken evenings, before they made their first docking. A port city, grubby but lively, and fully aligned to their rebel cause._  
 _“That was when everything was broken.”_  
 _He stopped speaking, closing his eyes as if in prayer. Then, the small hand of his grandchild was on his cheek, and he smiled into it with a sorrow which weighted the air itself._  
 _“See, these men were not alone in their piracy. There were others – and not all saw eye-to-eye. Some of the companies were more vicious, more violent in their handling of things. The crew I have talked about were not fond of such an attitude, yet on their first evening in this port city, they were embroiled in it nonetheless. A fight was stirred by one of the brutal rivals between himself and the prince. He attacked him almost inhumanly, leaving him bruised and bloodied. But the captain rushed to his aid, and carried him away from the tavern, into safety. His crew lingered, and further heated rows were had before they separated themselves from the foul group. The guide spent his night fretting for his friend’s health, yet he could not find his way back to the ship. He slept in the street that evening._  
 _“Upon the following morning, the guide returned: the prince was safe; the captain ensured his footman that he would return to health fully and quickly. But the crew’s worries were not over; for it turned out that the leader of the brutish pirates had visited the captain. This man had told him slyly of how he knew where the crew’s next destination was, and hinted devilishly about knowing the prince for who he really was._  
 _“Well, the captain was shaken. He informed his crew, and the guide knew they were condemned. But although the prince offered to take his leave, to give back their safety and head ashore alone, the crew would not accept it. He was one of their own, now, and they would not abandon him. There was much optimism that night, I suppose, but it was the last._  
 _“They set sail in the earliest hours of the morning, steaming away from the port and the band of villains they had encountered there. But they were being followed; by the royal guard, no less. The rogues had reported the company after their skirmish, with full knowledge that they were condemning them to death._  
 _“It was midday when they caught up with the crew. Coming out of the mist, they surrounded the single ship with half a dozen of their own: there was no escape. But the prince was given a chance. He was the one that they had come for, the guards proclaimed, and they promised all other men would be left unharmed if he came with them immediately. He moved to do so – but it was in vain, for the crew would not let him surrender himself. They started to fight back._  
 _“They stood together in defiance on the deck, but to deter them, without so much as a blink one of the guards shot the first mate dead. This man was the one most close to the guide, having been the first friend he had made, and there was his cold body hitting the wood at his feet – in that moment, the guide knew he was dead too._  
 _“Again, the prince was offered a chance, but not so lightly: the rest of the crew would be spared, but the captain – responsible for their actions – would walk his own plank, to meet death beneath it. But the prince would not allow it – he cried out, and it all became clear. He said they could not die, if not together. He said to kill him too, that they would walk together._  
 _“And they did._  
 _“Their crew could do nothing but watch; hearing their bodies smash against the water. By this point, there was nothing but silence among the men. The guide was handcuffed, marked a royal traitor just as the others – but due to his former position in the capitol, his punishment was the king’s selection alone. So he was dragged to one side as his friends, his brothers, were pushed into a line. The guards stationed themselves opposite the pirates, and poised their guns._  
 _“But the men did not break, even when looking into death’s eyes. Instead they touched purple, joined hands, and stared straight out to the point where their captain and his prince had plummeted. Together, they released one final, tremendous yell:_  
 _“ **‘ABAISSÉ!’**_  
 _“Then the gunshots rang, and their blood spilled across the planks as their bodies crashed down upon them…”_  
 _Here, the man drew in a long, ragged breath, tears spilling across his cheeks. His grandson was weeping too, silently. He continued._  
 _“The guide was escorted back to land, but as if by a miracle, he managed to escape.”_  
 _The child nodded his head, understanding. “The guide is you.”_  
 _“Yes,” Combeferre answered, “he is. But there is one last part to the tale. I started by saying that the Abaissé lies on the bed of the sea. It was sunk before my eyes, swallowed by the ocean whole._  
 _“But there was something special about that ship, beyond the men aboard it: our lives are, were, finite; destined to end one day. The wine and weaponry were eventually to sour, to rust, and the coin to dissolve. But that ship did not just carry us; it did not just carry cargo—_  
 _“For a poet had sailed aboard the Abaissé, a poet fixated upon words. And they had covered each and every plank in them, the wood scrawled over entirely, written across by themselves and by some of their crew mates too, whenever they let them. One of these crew mates, who had left writing across one plank, was the prince himself. And as the ship sank, sailing down to the ocean floor, it carried his words with it._  
 _“It landed beside his body, and that of the captain’s, and it marked his grave._  
 _“And I thought of this, and realised that my friend was not alone: just as the words had been deposited at his side, so had the bodies of his crew. And the words which enveloped them all, written in their own hand – they were words of love; words of hope; words of another day.”_  
 _“Those words,” he said, faith prevailing in his tone, “let their spirits live on, right there, at the bottom of the sea. The prince and the captain; the first mate; the poet; all of their brothers. They all survived, down there._  
 _“ And I do not doubt, not for one instant, that they are still there today, gathered inside the Abaissé, given life by those words. They are singing and drinking to another dawn, and one day that dawn will come. But it is in your hands, now, my child, because you are the new fighter for the world – be you pirate or not. That is why I was spared, I believe; to tell you their tale in the hope that it proves a beacon to the future._  
 _“For I was always good at stories, and theirs is one which stands unforgettable.”_

_With that, he moved to touch the breast pocket of the waistcoat which he had worn for as long as a soul he knew could remember. His hand rested against the purple material over his heart, positioned as if he were swearing an oath, and he closed his eyes.  
               He could almost taste the sea._


End file.
